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MALAESKA; 


THE 


Indian "Wife of the White Hunter. 


BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS, 


mWIN P. BEADLE & 00., 141 WILLIAM ST. 
Hunt & Miner, 71-73 Fiftli St., Pittsburgli, 


Entered accordinff to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, 
by lawiN P. Bbadle k Co., in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United State* 
for the Southern District of New-York. 


di:nxi^: novii:ls 2 ^ 0 . 


ALICE WILDE; THE RAFTSMAN^S DAU6H1ER 

BY MRS. MBTTik V. VICTOR. 



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Publishers, 141 William Street, N. 





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THE 


I ]sr D I A. N' 'WIFE 


OF THE 


WHITE H H H T E E. 


BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS. 


iN-EW YORK; 

IRWIN P. BEADLE AND COMPANY, 
141 William St., coiiner of Fultox. 


/fU 



PUBLISHERS’ NOTICE. 


We take pleasure in introducing the read^ to the following 
romance by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. It is one of the most 

I 

interesting and fascinating works of this eminent author. It 
is chosen as the initial volume of the Deme Novel series, 
from the chaste character of its delineations, from the interest 
which attaches to its fine pictures of border life and Indian 
adventure, and from the real romance of its incidents. It is 
Anierimn in all its features, pure in its tone, elevating in its 
sentiments ; and may be referred to as a work representative 
of the series that is to follow — every volume of which will be 
of the highest order of merit, from the pens of authors whose 
inter ectual and moral excellencies liave already given the 
writers an enviable name, in this country and in Europe. By 
the publication of the series contemplated, it is hoped to reacli 
all classes, old and young, male and female, in a manner at 
once to captivate and to enliven — to answer to the populai* 
demand for works of romance, but also to instil a pure and 
elevating sentiment in the hearts and minds of the people. 

New York, June ^ 1860. 


Entered according to Act of Congress, in the Year 1860, by 
IRWIN P. BEADLE & CO., 
in the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New York. 


MALAESKA 


CHAPTER I . 

The brake hung low on the rifted rock 
With sweet and holy dread ; 

The wild-flowers trembled to the shock 
Of the red man’s stealthy tread ; 

And all around fell a fitful gleam 

Through the light and quivering spray, 

While the noise of a restless mountain-stream 
Rush’d out on the stilly day. 

The traveler wlio has stopped at Catskill, on his way up 
the Hudson, will remember that a creek of no insignificant 
breadth washes one side of the village, and that a heavy 
stone dw^elling stands a little up from the water on a point of 
verdant meadotv-land, which forms a lip of the stream, where 
it empties into the more majestic river. This farm-house is 
the only object that breaks the green and luxuriant beauty of 
the point, on that side, and its quiet and entire loneliness con- 
trasts pleasantly with the bustling and crowded little village 
on the opposite body of land. There is much to attract 
attention to that dwelling. Besides occupying one of the 
most lovely sites on the river, it is remarkable for an appear- 
ance of old-fashioned comfort at variance with the pillared 
houses and rustic cottages which meet the eye everywhere on 
the banks of the Hudson. There are no flowers to fling fra- 
grance about it, and but little of embellishment is manifest in 
its grounds ; but it is surrounded by an abundance of thrifty 
fruit-trees ; an extensive orchard sheds its rich foliage to the 
sunshine on the bank, and the sward is thick and heavy which 
slopes greenly from the front door down to the river’s brink. 

The interior of the house retains an air of substantial com- 
fort which answers well to the promise conveyed without. 
The heavy furniture has grown old with its occupants ; rich it 
has been in its time, and now it possesses the rare quality of 


6 


MALAESKA. 


fitness, and of being in harmony with si'.rro’.mding things. 
Every thing abont tliat house is in perfect k<. eplng with the, 
character and appearance of its owner. The occupant him- 
self, is a fine stately farmer of the old class — shrewd, penetrat- 
ing, and intelligent — one of those men who contrive to keep 
the heart green when the frost of age is chilling the blood and 
whitening upon the brow. He has already numbered more 
than the threescore years and ten allotted to man. His 
habits and the fashion of his attire are those of fifty years 
ago. He still clings to huge wood-fires, apples, and cider 
in the winter season, and allows a bevy of fine cows to pasture 
on The rich grass in front of his dwelling in the summer. All 
the hospitable feeling of former years remains warn\ at his 
heart. He is indeed a fine specimen of the staunch old 
republican farmer of the last century, occupying the house 
which his father erected, and enjoying a fresh old age lieneath 
the roof tree which shadowed his infancy. 

During a sojourn in this vicinity last season, it was one of 
our greatest pleasures to spend an evening with the old gentle- 
man, listening to legends of the Indians, reminiscences of the 
Hevolution, and pithy remarks on the present age, with which 
he loved to entertain us, while we occasionally interrupted 
him by comparing knitting-work with the kind old lady, his 
wife, or b}^ the praises of a sweet little grandchild, who would 
cling about his knees and play with the silver buckles on his 
shoes as he- talked. That tall, stately old man, and the sweet 
child made a beautiful picture of “ age at play with infancy,” 
when the fire-light flickered over them, to the ancient family 
pictures, painted in Holland, hanging on the wall behind us, 
in the old-fashioned oval frames, which, with the heavy Dutch 
Bible, which lay on the stand, secured with hasps and brass 
hinges, ponderous as the fastenings of a prison-door, were fam- 
ily relics precious to the old gentleman from antiquity and 
association. Yes, the picture was pleasant to look upon ; but 
there was pleasure in listening to his legends and stories. If 
the one here related is not exactly as he told it, he will not 
fail to recognize the beautiful young Indian girl, whom he 
described to us, in the character of Malaeska. 

At the time of our story, the beautiful expanse of country 
which stretches from the foot of the Catskill mountains to the 


THE iiu>:teii3. 


7 


Hudson was one dense wilderness. The noble stream glided 
on in the solemn stillness of nature, shadowed with trees that 
had battled with storms for centuries, its surface as yet un- 
broken, save by the light prow of the Indian’s canoe. The 
lofty rampart of mountains frowned against the sky as they 
do now, but rendered more gloomy by the thick growth of 
timber which clothed them at the base ; they loomed up from 
the dense sea of foliage like the outposts of a darker world. 
Of all the cultivated acres which at the present day sustain 
thousands with their products, one little clearing alone smiled 
up from the heart of the wilderness. A few hundred acres 
had been cleared by a hardy band of settlers, and a cluster of 
log-houses was erected in the heart of the little valley which 
. now contains Catskill village. Although in the neighborhood 
of a savage Indian tribe, the little band of pioneers remained 
unmolested in their humble occupations, gradually clearing 
the land around their settlement, and sustaining their families 
on the game which was found in abundance in the moun- 
tains. They held little intercourse with the Indians, but 
hitherto no act of hostility on either side had aroused discon- 
tent between the settlers and the savages. 

It was early in May, about a year after the first settlement 
of the whites, when some six or eight of the stoutest men 
started for the woods in search of game. A bear had been 
seen on the brink of tlie clearing at break of day, and while 
the greater number struck off in search of more humble game, 
three of the most resolute followed his trail, Avhich led to the 
mountains. 

The foremost of the three hunters, was an Englishman of 
about forty, habited in a threadbare suit of blue broadcloth, 
with drab gaiters buttoned up to his knees, and a hat sadly 
shorn of its original nap. His hunting ai)paratus bespoke the 
peculiar care which all of his country so abundantly bestow 
on their implements of sport. The other two were much 
younger, and dressed in home-made cloth, over which were 
loose frocks manufactured from the refuse flax or swingled 
tow. Both were handsome, but different in the cast of their 
features. The character of the first might be read in his gay 
air and sinlngy step, ns ho followed close to the Englishm;m, 
dashing away the brushwood with the muzzle of his gun, and 


8 


MALAESKA. 


detecting- with a quick eye the broken twigs or disturbed 
leaves which betrayed the coui-se of the hunted bear. There 
was also something cliaracteristic in the wearing of his dress, 
in the fox-skin cap thrown carelessly on one side of his su- 
perb head, exposing a mass of short brown curls around the 
left ear and temple, and in the bosom of his coarse frock, 
thrown open so as to give free motion to a neck Apollo might 
liave coveted. He was a hunter, wlio had occasionally visited 
the settlement of late, but spent whole weeks in the woods, 
professedly in collecting furs by his own efforts, or by pur- 
chase from the tribe of Indians encamped at the foot of the 
mountains. 

The last was more sedate in his looks, and less buoyant in his 
air. There was an intellectual expression in his high, thought* 
ful brow, embrowned though it was by exposure. A depth 
of thought in his serious eye, and a graceful dignity in his 
carriage, bespoke him as one of those who hide deep feeling 
under an appearance of coldness and apathy. He had been a 
schoolmaster in the Bay State, from whence he had been 
drawn by the bright eyes and merry laugh of one Martha 
Fellows, a maiden of seventeen, whose father had moved to 
the settlement at Catskill the preceding summer, and to whom, 
report said, he was to be married whenever a minister, au- 
thorized to perform the ceremony, should find his way to the 
settlement. 

The three hunters bent their way in a southwestern direc- 
tion from the settlement, till the forest suddenly opened into a 
beautiful and secluded piece of meadow-land, known to this 
day by its Dutch title of “ the Straka,” wdiich means, our aged 
friend informed us, a strip of land. The Straka lay before 
them of an oblong form, some eight or ten acres in expanse, 
with all its luxuriance of trees, grass, and flowers, bathed in 
the dew and sunshine of a warm summer’s morning. It pre- 
sented a lovely contrast to the dense wilderness from which 
the hunters emerged, and they halted for a moment beneath 
the boughs of a tall hickory to enjoy its delicious freshness. 
The surface of the inclosure was not exactly level, but down 
the whole length it curved gently up from the middle, on 
either side, to the magnificent trees that hedged it in with a 
beautiful and leafy rampart. The margin was irregular ; here 


9 


“the stkak^v.” 

and there a clump of trees shot down into the inclosure, and 
the clearing* occasionally run up into the forest in tiny glades 
and little grassy nooks, in which the sunlight slumbered like 
smiles on the face of a dreaming infant. On every side the 
trunks of huge trees shot up along the margin beneath their 
magnificent canopy of leaves, like the ivied columns of a ruin, 
or fell back in the misty perspective of the forest, scarcely dis- 
' cerniblc in its gloom of shadow. The heavy piles of foliage, 
which fell amid the boughs like a wealth of drapery flung in 
masses to the summer wind, was thrifty and ripe with the 
warm breath of August. Ko spirit of decay had as yet shed 
a gorgeous breath over its deep, rich green, hut all was wet 
with dew, and kindled up by the sunlight to a thousand vary- 
ing tints of the same color. A bright spring gushed from a 
rvvell of ground in the upper part of the inclosure, and the 
whole surface of the beautiful spot v/as covered nnth a vigor- 
ous growth of tall meadow-grass, which rose thicker and 
brighter and of a more delicate green down the middle, where 
the spring curved onward in a graceful rivulet, musical as the 
iaugh of a child. As if called to life by the chime of a little 
brook, a host of white wild flowers unfolded their starry blos- 
soms along the margin, and clumps of swamp-lilies shed an 
azure hue along the grass. 

Until that day, our hunters had ever found “ the Straka” 
silent and untenanted, save by singing-birds, and wild deer 
which came down from the mountains to feed on its rich ver- 
dure ; but now a dozen wreaths of smoke curled up from the 
trees at the northern extremity, and a camp of newly-erected 
wigwams might be seen through a vista in the wood. One 
or two were built even on the edge of the clearing ; the grass 
was much trampled around them, and three or four half-naked 
Indian children lay rolling upon it, laughing, shouting, and 
ringing up their limbs in the pleasant morning air. One 
foung Indian woman was also frolicking among them, tossing 
in infiint in her arms, caroling and playing with it. Hc^r 
iaugh was musical as a bird song, and as she darted to and 
fro, now into the forest and then out into the sunshine, her 
long hair glowed like the wing of a raven, and her motion 
was graceful as an untamed gazelle. They could see that the 
child, too, was very beautiful, e^/m from the distraice at wliich 


10 


MALAESKA. 


they stood, and occasionally, as the wind swept toward them, ^ 
his shout came ringing upon it like the gush of waters leaping 
from their fount. 

“ This is a little too bad,” muttered the Englishman, finger- 
ing his gun-lock. “ Can they find no spot to burrow in but 
‘ the Straka ?’ St. George ! but I have a mind to shoot the 
squaw and wring the neck of every red imp among them.” 

“ Do it !” exclaimed Danforth, turning furiously upon him ; 
“ touch but a hair of her head, and by the Lord that made 
me, I will bespatter that tree vdth your brains !” 

The Englishman dropped the stock of his musket hard to 
the ground, and a spot of fiery red flashed into his cheek at 
this savage burst of auger so uncalled for and so insolent. 
He gazed a moment on the frowning face of the young 
hunter, and then lifting his gun, turned carelessly away. 

“ Tut, man, have done with this,” he said ; “ I did but jest. 
Come, we have lost the trail, and shall miss the game, too, if 
we tarry longer ; come.” 

The Englishman shouldered his musket, as he spoke, and 
turned into the woods. Jones followed, but Danforth lingered 
behind. 

“ I must see what this means,” he muttered, glancing after 
his companions, and then at the group of young Indians ; 
“ what can have brought them so near the settlement ?” 

He gave another quick glance toward the hunters, and then 
hurried across “ the Straka” toward the wigwams. Jones 
and the Englishman had reached the little lake or pond, which 
lies about a mile south of “ the Straka,” when thej^ were again 
joined by Danforth. His brow was unclouded, and he seem- 
ed anxious to do away the effect of his late violence by more 
than ordinary cheerfulness. Harmony was restored, and they 
again struck into the trail of the bear, and pursued tow'ard 
the mountains. 

Hoon found our hunters deep in the ravines which cut into 
the ridge of the Catskill on which the Mountain House now 
stands. Occupied by the wild scenery which surrounded 
him, Jones became separated from his companions, and long 
before he was aware of it, they had proceeded far beyond 
the reach of his voice. When lie became sensible of his situ- 
ation, he found himself in a deep ravine sunk into the very 


TITE WATERFALL. 


11 


heart of the mountains. A small stream crept along the rocky 
bottom, untouched by a single sun’s ray, though it was now 
high noon. Every thing about him was wild and fearfull}^ 
sublime, but the shadows were refreshing and cool, and the 
stream, rippling along its rocky bed, sent up a pleasant mur- 
mur as he passed. Gradually a soft, flowing sound, like the 
rush of a current of air through a labyrinth of leaves and 
blossoms, came gently to his ear. As he proceeded, it became 
more musical and liquid, swelled upon the ear gradually and 
with a richer burden of sound, till he knew that it was the 
rush and leap of waters at no great distance. The ravine had 
sunk deeper and deeper, and fragments of rock lay thickly in 
the bed of the stream. Arthur Jones paused, and looked 
about him bewildered, and j^et with a lofty, poetical feeling at 
his heart, aroused by a sense of the glorious handiwork of the 
Almighty encompassing him. lie stood within the heart of 
the mountain, and it seemed to heave and tremble beneath liis 
feet with some unknown influence as he gazed. Precipices, 
and rocks piled on rocks were heaped to the sky on either 
side. Large forest-trees stood rooted in the wide clefts, and 
waved their heavy boughs abroad like torn banners streaming 
upon the air. A strip of the blue heavens arched gently over 
the whole, and that was beautiful. It smiled softly, and like a 
promise of love over that sunless ravine. Another step, and 
the waterfall was before him. It was sublime, but beautiful — 
oh, A^ery beautiful — that little body of water, curling and foam- 
ing downward like a wreath of snoAV sifted from the clouds, 
breaking in a shower of spray over the shelf of rocks Avhicli 
stayed its progress, then leaping a second foaming mass, down, 
down, like a deluge of flowing light, another hundred feet to 
the shadowy depths of the ravine. A shoAver of sunlight 
played amid the foliage far overhead, and upon the top of tlie 
curving precipice where the Avaters made their first leap. As 
the hunter became more calm, he remarked Iioav harmoniously 
the beautiful and sublime Avere blended in the scene. The 
precipices Avere rugged and froAvning, but soft, rich mosses 
and patches of delicate Avhite Avild-floAvers clung about them. 
So profusely Avere those gentle floAvers lavished upon the 
rocks, that it seemed as if tlic very spray drops Averc breaking 
into blossoms as they fell. The hunter’s heart SAvellcd Avilh 


n 


MALAESKA. 


pleasure as he drank in the extreme beauty of the scene. He 
rested his gun against a fragment of rock, and sat down with 
his eyes fixed on the waterfall. As he gazed, it seemed as if 
the precipices were moving upward — upward to the very sky. 
He was pondering on this strange optical delusion, which has 
puzzled many a dizzy brain since, "when the click of a gun- 
lock struck sharply on his ear. He sprang to his feet. A 
bullet whistled by his head, cutting through the dark locks 
which curled in heavy masses above his temples, and as a 
sense of giddiness cleared from his brain, he saw a half-naked 
savage crouching upon the ledge of rocks which ran along 
the foot of the fall. The spray fell upon his bronzed shoul- 
ders and sprinkled the stock of his musket as he lifted it to 
discharge the other barrel. With the quickness of thought, 
Jones drew his musket to his eye and fired. The savage 
sent forth a fierce, wild yell of agony, and springing up with 
the bound of a wild animal, fell headlong from the shelf. 
Trembling with excitement, yet firm and courageous, the 
hunter reloaded his gun, and stood ready to sell his life as 
dearly as possible, for he believed that the ravine was full of 
concealed savages, who would fall upon him like a pack of 
wolves. But every thing remained quiet, and when he found 
that he was alone, a terrible consciousness of bloodshed 
came upon him. His knees trembled, his cheek burned, and, 
with an impulse of fierce excitement, he leaped over the inter- 
vening rocks and stood by the slain savage. He was lying 
with his face to the earth, quite dead ; Jones drew forth his 
knife, and lifting the long, black hair, cut it away from the 
crown. With the trophy in his hand, he sprang across the 
ravine. The fearless spirit of a madness seemed upon him, 
for he rushed up the steep ascent, and plunged into the forest, 
apparently careless what direction he took. The sound of a 
musket stopped his aimless career. He listened, and bent his 
steps more calmly toward the eminence on which the Moun- 
tain House now stands. Here he found the Englishman with 
the carcass of a huge bear stretched at his feet, gazing on the 
glorious expanse of country, spread out like a map, hundreds 
of fathoms beneath him. His face was flushed, and the per- 
spiration rolled freely from liis forehead. Danforth stood be- 
side him, also bearing traces of recent conflict. 


THE SCALPED INDIAN. 


m 


“ So you have come to claim a shnre of the meat,” said the 
old hunter, as Jones approached. “ It is brave to leave your 
skulking-place in the bushes, when the danger is over. Bless 
me, lad ! what have you there ?” he exclaimed, starting up 
and pointing to the scalp. 

Jones related his encounter with the savage. The English- 
man shook his head forebodingly. 

“ We shall have hot work for this job before the week is 
over,” he said. “ It was a foolish shot ; but keep a good 
heart, my lad, for, hang me. If I should not have done the 
same thing if the red devil had sent a bullet so near my head. 
Come, we will go and bury the fellow the best way we can.” 

Jones led the way to the fall, but they found only a few 
scattered locks of black hair, and a pool of blood half washed 
from the rock by the spray. The body of the savage and his 
rifle had disappeared — how, it was in vain to conjecture. 

One of the largest log-houses in the settlement had been 
appropriated as a kind of tavern, or place of meeting for the 
settlers when they returned from their hunting excursions. 
Here a store of spirits was kept, under the care of John Fel- 
lows and pretty Martha Fellows, his daughter, the maiden 
before-mentioned. As the sun went down, the men who had 
gone to the woods in the morning, began to collect with their 
game. Two stags, raccoons and meaner game in abundance, 
were lying before the door, when the three hunters came in 
with the slain bear. Tliey were greeted with a boisterous 
shout, and the hunters crowded eagerly forward to examine 
the prize ; but when Jones cast the Indian’s scalp on the pile, 
they looked in each other’s faces with ominous silence, wliile 
the young hunter stood pale and collected before them. It 
was the first time that Indian life had been taken by any of 
their number, and they felt that in the shedding of red blood, 
the barriers of their protection were broken dowm. 

“ It is a bad business,” said one of the elder settlers, waving 
his head and breaking the general silence. “ There’ll be no 
clear hunting in the woods after this ; but how did it all come 
about, Jones ? Let us know how you came by that scalp— did 
the varmint fire at you, or how was it?’’ _ 

The hunters gathered around Jones, whq was. about to 
account f#r liie possession of th.e scalp, when the door of th« 


14 


JIALAESKA. 


house was opened, and he happened to look into the little room 
thus exposed. It was scantily furnished with a few benches 
and stools; a bed was in one corner, and Martha Fellows, his 
promised wife, stood by a rough deal tabic, on which were two 
o^ three drinking-cups, a couple of half-empty bottles, with a 
pitcher of water, backed by a broken mug, tilled to the fractured 
top with maple molasses. Nothing of the kind could have been 
more beautiful than pretty Martha as she bent forward, listen- 
ing with wrapt attention to the animated wdiisper of William 
Danfortli, who stood by her, divested of his coarse frock, his 
cap lying on the table betore him, and his athletic figure dis- 
played to the best advantage b}^ the roundabout buttoned 
closely over his b<3som. A red silk handkerchief, tied like a 
scarf round his Avaist, gave a picturesque gracefulness to his 
costume, altogether in harmony with his fine proportions, and 
Avith the bold cast of his head, Avhich certainly was a model 
of muscular beauty. 

A flash of anger shot athwart Arthur Jones’ forehead, and 
a strange jealous feeling came to his heart. He began a con- 
fused account of his adventure, but the Englishman inter- 
rupted him, and took it ui)oii himself to gratify the clamorous 
curiosity of the hunters, leaving .Jones at liberty to scrutinize 
each look and motion of his lady-love. Ile'Avatched with 
a jealous feeling the blush as it deepened and gloAved on her 
embrowned cheek ; he saAV the sparlding pleasure of her hazel 
eyes, and the pretty dimples gathering about her red lips, like 
spots of sunlight flickering through the leaves of a red rose, 
and his heart sickened Avith distrust. But Avhen the hand- 
some hunter laid his hand on hers nnd bent his head, till the 
short curls on his temples almost mingled with her glossy 
ringlets, the lover could bear the sight no more. Breaking 
from the little band of hunters, he stalked majestically into 
tlic house, and approaching the object of his uneasiness, ex- 
claimed, “Martha Fellows,” in a voice which caused the 
pretty culprit to snatch her hand from under the hunter’s, and 
to overturn tAvo empty tin cups in her fright. 

“ Sir,” said Martha, recovering herself, and casting a mis- 
chievous glance at Danforth, Avhich was reciprocated with 
interest. ■ 'i ' 

Mr. Arthur Jones felt tliat he Avas making himself ridiculous, 


JEALOUSY. 


15 


and suppressing liis wratli, lie finished his magnificent com- 
mencement; “Will you give me a drink of water?” At 
which Martha pointed with her little embrowned hand to the 
pitcher, saying: 

“ There it is then, turning her hack to her lover, she cast 
another arch glance at Danforth, and taldng his cap from the 
table, began to blow upon the yellow fur, and put it to hei 
cheek, as if it had been a pet kitten she was caressing, arid all 
for the laudalfie purpose of tormenting the man who loved 
her, and whom she loved better than any thing in existence. 
Jones turned on her a bitter contemptuous look, and raising 
the pitcher to his lips, left the room. In a few minutes the 
other hunters entered, and Jason Fellows, father to Martha, 
announced it as decided by the hunters, who had been holding 
a kind of council withoirt, that Arthur Jones and lYilliam 
Danforth, as the two youngest members of the community, 
should be dispatched to the nearest settlement to request aid 
to protect them from the Indians, v/hosc immediate attack 
they had good reason to fear. 

Martha, on hearing the names of the emissaries mentioned, 
dropped the cup she had been filling. 

“ Ob, not him — not them, I mean — they will be overtaken 
and tomahawked by the way !” she exclaimed, turning to her 
father with a look of aflright. 

“ Let Mr. Danforth remain,” said Jones, advancing to the 
table ; “ I will undertake the mission alone.” ' • 

Tears came into Martha’s eyes, and she turned them re- 
proachfully to her lover; but, full of his h.eroic resolution to 
be tomahawked and comfortably scalped on his ovvii responsl- 
bility, he turned majestically, without deigning to meet the 
tearful glance which was well calculated to mitigate his jealous 
u rath. 

Daifibrth, on being applied to, requested permission to defer 
his answer till the morning, and the hunters left the house to 
divide the game, which had been forgotten in the general ex- 
citement. 

Danforth, who had lingered to the last, took up his cap, 
and whispering good-night to Martha, left the house. The 
j)oor girl scarcely heeded his departure, Her eyes filled with 
t{‘ars, a.nd seating herself on a wliirJi pn along one end. 


16 


MALAESICA. 


of the room, she folded her arms on a board which served as 
a back, and burying her face upon them, wept violently. 

As she remained in this position, she heard a familiar step 
on the door. Her heart beat quick, fluttered a moment, and 
then settled to its regular pulsations again, for her lover had 
seated himself beside her. Martha wiped the tears from her 
eyes and remained quiet, for she knew that he had returned, 
and with that knowledge, the spirit of coquetry had revived ; 
and when Jones, softened by her apparent sorrow — for he had 
seen her parting with Danforth — put his hand softly under 
her forehead and raised her face, the creature was laughing — 
laughing at his folly, as he thought. 

“ Martha, you are doing wrong — wrong to yourself and to 
me,” said the disappointed lover, rising indignantly and taking 
his hat, with which he advanced to the door. 

“ Don’t go,” said Martha, turning her head till one cheek 
only rested on her arm, and casting a glance, half-repentant, 
half-comic, on her retreating lover ; “ don’t go off so ; if you 
do, you’ll be very sorry for it.” 

Jones hesitated — she became very serious — the tears sprang 
to her eyes, and she looked exceedingly penitent. He re- 
turned to her side. Had he appealed to her feelings then — 
had he spoken of the pain she had given him in her encour- 
agement of another, she would have acknowledged the fault 
with all proper humility ; but he did no such thing — he was 
a common-sense man, and he resolved to end his first love- 
quarrel ill a common-sense manner, as if common-sense ever 
hn.d any thing to do with lovers’ quarrels. “ I will reason 
with her,” he thought. “ He will say I have made him very 
wretched, and I will tell him I am very sorry,” she thought. 

“ Martha,” he said, very deliberately, “ why do I find you 
on terms of such familiarity with this Manhattan fellow ?” 

Martha was disappointed. He spoke quite too calml}", and 
there was a sarcastic emphasis in the word “fellow,” that 
roused her pride. The lips, which had just began to quiver 
with repentance, worked themselves into a pouting fullness, 
till they resembled the rose-bud just as it bursts into leaves. 
Her rounded shoulder was turned pettishly toward her lover, 
witli the air of a spoiled child, and she replied that, “ he w^as 
always finding fault.” 


THE LOVEHS’ QUARREL. 


17 


Jones took her hand, and was proceeding in his sensible 
manner to convince her that she was wrong, and acted wildly, 
foolishly, and with a careless disregard to her own happiness. 

As might be expected, the beautiful rustic snatched her 
hand away, turned her shoulder more decidedly on her lover, 
and bursting into tears, declared that she would thank him if 
he would stop scolding, and that she did not care if she never 
set eyes on him again. 

He would have remonstrated ; “ Do listen to common 
sense,” he said, extending his hand to take hers. 

“ I hate common-sense !” she exclaimed, dashing away his 
hand ; “ I won’t hear any more of your lecturing, — leave the 
house, and never speak to me again as long as you live.” 

Mr. Arthur Jones took up his hat, placed it deliberately on 
his head, and walked out of the house. With a heavy heart 
Martha watched his slender form as it disappeared in the 
darkness, and then stole away to her bed in the garret. 

“ He will call in the morning before he starts ; he won’t 
have the heart to go away without saying one word, — I am 
sure he won’t,” she repeated to herself over and over again, 
as she lay sobbing and weeping penitent tears on her pillow 
that night. 

When William left the log tavern, he struck into the 
woods, and took his course toward the Pond. There was a 
moon, but the sky was clouded, and the little light which 
struggled to the earth, was too faint to penetrate the thick 
foliage of the wilderness. Danforth must have been familiar 
with the track, for he found his way without difficulty through 
the wilderness, and never stopped till he came out on the 
northern brink of the Pond. He looked anxiously over the 
face of the little lake. The fitful moon had broken from a 
cloud, and was touching the tiny waves with beauty, while 
the broken, rocky shore encompassed it with shadow, like a 
frame-work of ebony. ISTo speck was on its bosom ; no sound 
was abroad, but the evening breeze as it rippled on the wa- 
ters, and made a sweet whispering melody in the tree-tops. 

Suddenly a light, as from a pine torch, was seen on a point 
of land jutting out from the opposite shore. Another and an- 
other flashed out, each bearing to a particular direction, and 
then a myriad of flames rose high and bright, illuminating the 


18 


MALAESKA. 


whole point, and shooting its fiery reflection, like a meteor, 
almost across the bosom of the waters. 

“ Yes, they are preparing for work,” muttered I>anforth, as 
he saw a crowd of painted warriors arrange themselves around 
the camp-fire, each with his firelock in his hand. There was 
a general movement. Dark faces flittered in quick succession 
between him and the blaze, as the warriors performed the 
heavy march, or war-dance, which usually preceded the going 
out of a hostile party. 

Danforth left the shore, and striking out in an oblique di- 
rection, arrived, after half an hour of quick walking, at the 
Indian encampment. He threaded his way through the clus- 
ter of bark wigwams, till he came to one standing on the 
verge of the inclosure. It was of logs, and erected with a 
regard to comfort which the others wanted. The young 
hunter drew aside the mat which hung over the entrance, and 
looked in. A young Indian girl was sitting on a pile of furs 
at the opposite extremity. She wore no paint — her cheek 
was round and smooth, and large gazelle-like eyes gave a soft 
brilliancy to her countenance, beautiful beyond expression. 
Her dress was a robe of dark chintz, open at the throat, and 
confined at the waist by a narrow belt of wampum, which, 
with the bead bracelets on her naked arms, and the embroid- 
ered moccasins laced over her feet, was the only Indian orna- 
ment about her. Even her hair, which all of her tribe wore 
laden with ornaments, and hanging down the back, was 
braided and wreathed in raven bands over her smooth fore- 
head. An infant, almost naked, was lying in her lap, throw- 
ing its unfettered limbs about, and lifting his little hands to 
his mother’s mouth, as she rocked back and forth on her seat 
of skins, chanting, in a sweet, mellow voice, the burden of 
an Indian lullaby. As the form of the hunter darkened the 
entrance, the Indian girl started up with a look of affectionate 
joy, and laying her child on the pile of skins, advanced to 
meet him. 

“ Why did the white man leave his woman so many 
nights ?” she said, in her broken English, hanging fondly about 
him ; “ the boy and his mother have listened long for the 
sound of his moccasins.” 

Danfortli passed bis ann around the waist of his Indian 


THE IKDIAN WIFE. 


10 


wife, and drawing her to liim, bent his cheek to hers, as if 
that slight caress was sntficient answ'cr to lier gentle greeting, 
and so it w^as ; her untutored heart, rich in its natural affec- 
tions, had no aim, no object, but what centered in the love 
she bore her white husband. The feelings which in civilized 
life are scattered over a thousand objects, were in her bosom, 
centered in one single being ; he supplied the place of all the 
high aspirations — of all the passions and sentiments which are 
fostered into strength by society, and as her husband bowed 
his head to hers, the blood darkened her cheek, and her large, 
liquid eyes were flooded with delight, 

“ And what has Malaeska been doing since the boy’s father 
went to the wood ?” inquired Danforth, as she drew him to the 
couch where the child was lying half buried in the rich fur. 

“Malaeska has been alone in the wigwam, watching the 
shadow of the big pine. When her heart grew sick, she look- 
ed in the boy^s eyes and vfas glad,” replied the Indian mother, 
laying the infant in his father’s arms, 

Danforth kissed the child, whose eyes certninly bore a strik- 
ing resemblance to his own ; and parting the straight, black 
hair from a forehead which scarcely bore a tinge of its moth- 
er’s blood, muttered, “ It’s a pity the little fellow is not quite 
white.” 

The Indian mother took the child, and wuth a look of proud 
anguish, laid her finger on its cheek, which was rosy with 
English blood. 

“ Malaeska’s father is a great chief— the boy will be a chief 
in her father’s tribe ; but Malaeska never thinks of that when 
she sees the white man’s blood come into the boy’s face.” Slie 
turned mournfull}^ to her seat again. 

“ He will make a brave chief,” said Danforth, anxious to 
soften the effects of his inadvertent speech ; “ but tell me, Ma- 
laeska, why have the wanlors kindled the council fire ? I 
saw it blaze by the pond as I came by.” 

Malaeska could only inform that the body of a dead Indian 
had been brought to the encampment about dusk, and tlwit it 
was supposed he had been shot by some of the whites from 
the settlement. She said that the chief had immediately call- 
ed a council to deliberate on the best meaus of revenging their 
brother’s death. 


20 


xMAI.AESTCA. 


Diinfortli had feared this movement in the savages, and it 
was to mitigate their wrath that he sought the encampment 
at so late an hour. Ho had married the daughter of theii 
chief, and, consequently, was a man of considerable import- 
ance in the tribe. But he felt that his utmost exertion might 
fail to draw them from their meditated vengeance, now that 
one of their number had been slain by the whites. Feeling 
the necessity of his immediate presence at the council, he left 
the wigwam and proceeded at a brisk walk to the brink of 
the Pond. He came out of the thick forest which fringed it 
a little above the point on which the Indians were collected. 
Their dance was over, and from the few guttural tones which 
reached him, Danforth knew that they w’ere planning the death 
of some particular individuals, which was probably to precede 
their attack on the settlement. The council fire still streamed 
high in the air, reddening the waters and lighting up the trees 
and foreground with a beautiful effect, ’^diile the rocky point 
seemed of emerald pebbles, so brilliant was the reflection cast 
over it, and so distinctly did it display the painted forms of 
the savages as they sat in a circle round the blaze, each with 
his weapon lying idly by his side. The light lay full on the 
glittering wampum and feathery crest of one who was address- 
ing them with more energy than is common to the Indian 
warrior. 

Danforth was too far olT to collect a distinct hearing of the 
discourse, but with a feeling of perfect security, he left the 
deep shadow in which he stood, and approached the council 
fire. As the light fell upon him, the Indians leaped to their 
feet, and a savage yell rent the air, as if a company of fiends 
had been disturbed in their orgies. Again and again was the 
fierce cry reiterated, till the woods resounded, with the wild 
echo rudely summoned from the caves. As the young hunter 
stood lost in astonishment at the strange commotion, he was 
seized by the savages, and dragged before their chief, while 
the group around furiously demanded vengeance, quick and 
terrible, for the death of their slain brother. The truth flashed 
across the hunter’s mind. It was his death they had been 
planning. It was he they supposed to be the slayer of the 
Indian. He remonstrated and declared himself guiltless of 
the red man’s death. ■ It was in vain, He had been seen on 


THE ESCAPE. 


21 


the mountain by one of the tribe, not five minutes before the 
dead body of the Indian was found. Almost in despair the 
hunter turned to the chief. 

“ Am I not your son — the father of a young chief— one of 
your own tribe !” he said, with appealing energy. 

The saturnine face of the chief never changed, as he an- 
swered in his own language : “ The red man has taken a 
rattlesnake to warm in his wigwam — the warriors shall crush his 
head !” and with a fierce grin, he pointed to the pile of resinous 
wood which the savages were heaping on the council fire. 

Danforth looked round on the group preparing for his de- 
struction. Every dusky face was lighted up with a demoniac 
thirst for blood, the hot flames quivering into the air, their 
gorgeous tints amalgamating and shooting upward like a 
spire of living rainbows, while a thousand fiery tongues, hissing 
and darting onward like vipers eager for their prey, licked the 
fresh pine-knots heaped for his death-pyre. It was a fearful 
sight, and the heart of the brave hunter quailed within him as 
he looked. With another wild whoop, the Indians seized 
their victim, and were about to strip him for the sacrifice. In 
their blind fury they tore him from the grasp of those who 
held him, and were too intent on divesting him of his clothes 
to remark that his limbs were free. But he was not so forget- 
ful. Collecting his strength for a last effort, he struck the 
nearest savage a blow in the chest, which sent him reeling 
among his followers, then taking advantage of the confusion, 
he tore off his cap, and springing forward with the bound of 
an uncaged tiger, plunged into the lake. A shout rent the 
air, and a score of dark heads broke the water in pursuit. 

Fortunately, a cloud was over the moon, and the fugitive 
remained under the water till he reached the shadow thrown 
by the thickly-wooded bank, when, rising for a moment, he 
supported himself and hurled his cap out toward the center of 
the pond. The ruse succeeded, for the moon came out just at 
the instant, and with renewed shouts the savages turned in 
pursuit of the empty cap. Before they learned their mistake, 
Danforth had made considerable headvray under the friendly 
bank, and took to the woods just as the shoal of Indians’ 
heads entered the shadoW in eager chase. 

The fugitive stood for a moment on the brink of the forest, 
irresolute, for lie knew not which course to take. 


22 


MALAESKA. 


“ I have it ; they will never think of looking for me there,” 
he exclaimed, dashing through the undergrowth, and taking 
the direction toward “the Straka.” The whoop of the pur- 
suers smote his ear as they made the land. On, on he bound- 
ed witii the swiftness of a hunted stag, through swamp and 
brnsliwood, and over rocks. He darted till he came in sight 
uf Ids own wigwam. The sound of pursuit bad died away, 
and he began to hope that the savages had taken the track 
which led to the settlement. 

Breathless with exertion he entered the hut. The boy was 
asleep, but his mother was listening for the return of her 
husband. 

“Malaeska,” he said, catching her to his panting heart; 
“ Malaeska, we must part ; your tribe seek my life ; the war- 
riors are on my track now — now ! Do you hear their 
shouts?” he added. 

A wild whoop came up from the woods below, and forcing 
back the arms she had flung about him, he seized a war-club 
and stood ready for the attack. 

Makeska sprung to the door, and looked out with the air 
of a frightened doe. Darting back to the pile of furs, she laid 
the sleeping child on the bare earth, and motioning her husband 
to lie down, heaped the skins over his prostrate form ; then 
taking the child in her arms, she stretched h.erself on the pile, 
and drawing a bear-skin over her, pretended to be asleep. 
She had scarcely composed herself, when three savages entered 
the wigwam. One bore a blazing pine-knot, with whicli he 
proceeded to search for the fugitive. While the others were 
busy among the scanty furniture, he approached the trembling 
wife, and after feeling about among the furs Vvdthout effect, 
lifted the bear-skins v/hich covered her ; but her stveet face in 
apparent slumber, and the beautiful infant lying across her 
bosom, were all that rewarded his search. As if her beauty 
had ])ower to tame the savage, he carefully replaced the cov- 
ering over her person, and speaking to his companions, left 
the hut without attempting to disturb her further. 

iffalaeslca remained in lier feigned slumber till she heard 
Ihe Indians take to the woods again. Then she arose and 
lifted the skins from off her husband, who was nearly suffocated 
under them. When he had. regained his feet, she placed the 


THE PARTiXG. 


23 


war-clnb in his hand, and taking np the babe, led the way to 
the entrance of the hut. Danforth saw by the act, that she 
intended to desert her tribe and accompany him in his flight, 
lie had never thought of introducing her as his wife among 
the whites, and now that circumstances made it necessary for 
him to part with her forever, or to take her among his people 
for shelter, a pang, such as he had never felt, came to his 
heart. His affections struggled powerfully with his pride. 
The picture of his disgrace— of the scorn with which his 
parents and sisters would receive the Indian wife and half 
Indian child, presented itself before him, and he had not tlie 
moral courage to risk the degradation which her companion- 
sliip would bring upon him. These conflicting thouglits 
flashed through liis mind in an instant, and when his wife 
stopped at the door, and, looking anxiously .in his face, beck- 
oned him to follow, he said, sharply, for his conscience was ill 
at ease : 

“Malaeska, I go alone; you and the boy must remain with 
your people.” 

His wmrds had a withering effect on the poor Indian. Her 
form drooped, and slie raised her eyes with a look so mingled 
with humiliation and reproach, that the hunter’s heart thrilled 
painfully in his bosom. Slowl}^ and as if her soul and strength 
were paralyzed, she crept to her husband’s feet, and sinking to 
her knees, held up the babe. 

“ Malaeska’s breast will die, and the boy will have no one 
to feed him,” she said. 

That beautiful child — that young mother kneeling in her 
humiliation — those large dark eyes, dim with the intensity of 
her solicitude, and that voice so full of tender -entreaty — the 
husband’s heart could not withstand them. His bosom heaved, 
tears gathered in his ej^es, and raising the Indian and her 
child to his bosom, he kissed them both again and again. 

“Malaeska,” he said, folding her close to his heart, “Mala- 
eska, I must go now ; but when seven suns have passed, I 
will come again ; or, if the tribe still seek my life, take Ihe 
child ajid come to the settlement. I shall be there.” 

The Indian woman bowed her head in humble submi.ssioh. 

“The wiiitc man is good. Malaeska will come,” slie 
said. 


24 


MALAESKA. 


One more embrace, and the poor Indian wife was alone 
with her child. 

Poor Martha Fellows arose early, and waited with nervous 
impatience for the appearance of her lover ; but the morning 
passed, the hour of noon drew near, and he came not. The 
heart of the maiden grew heavy, and when her father came in 
to dine, her eyes were red with weeping, and a cloud of min- 
gled sorrow and petulance darkened her handsome hice. She 
longed to question her father about Jones, but he had twic.e 
replenished his brown earthen bowl with pudding and milk, 
before she could gather courage to speak. 

“ Have you seen Arthur Jones this morning ?” she at length 
questioned, in a low, timid voice. 

The answer she received, was quite sufficient punishment . 
for all her coquettish folly of the previous night. Jones had 
left the settlement — left it in anger with her, without a word 
of explanation — witliout even saying farewell. It really was 
hard. The little coquette had the heart-ache terribly, till he 
frightened it away by telling her of the adventure which Dan- 
forth had met with among ther Indians, and of his departure 
with Arthur Jones in search of aid from the nearest settle- 
ment. The old man gloomil}^ added, that the savages would 
doubtless burn the houses over their heads, and massacre every 
living being within them, long before the two brave fellows 
would return with men. Such, indeed, were the terrible fears 
of almost every one in the little neighborhood. Their apprehen- 
sions, however, were premature. Part of the Indian tribe had 
gone out on a hunting-party among the hills, and were igno- 
rant of the fatal shot with which Jones had aroused the ani- 
mosity of then* brethen ; while those who remained, were dis- 
persed in a fruitless pursuit after Danforth. 

On the afternoon of the fifth day after the departure of their 
emissaries, the whites began to see unequivocal symptoms of 
an attack ; and now their fears did not deceive them. The 
hunting-party had returned to their encampment, and the de- 
tached parties were gathering around “ the Straka.” About 
dark, an Indian appeared in the skirts of the clearing, as if to 
spy out the position of the whites. Soon after, a shot was 
fired at the Englishman, before mentioned, as he returned 
from his work, which passed through the crown of his liat. 


THE WELCO.MIC (WESTS. 


25 


That liostilities were comnieiicing', ^vas now beyond a doubt, 
and the males of the settlement met in solemn conclave, to 
devise measures for the defence of their wives and children. 
Their slender preparations were soon made ; all were gathered 
around one of the largest houses in gloomy apprehension; 
the women and children within, and the men standing in 
front, sternly resolving to die in the defence of their loved 
ones. Suddenly there came up a sound from the wood, the 
trampling of many feet, and the crackling of brushwood, as if 
some large body of men were forcing a way through the 
tangled forest. The women bowed their pallid faces, and 
gathering their children in their arms, waited appalled for the 
attack. The men stood ready, each grasping his weapon, 
their faces pallid, and their eyes kindled with stern courage, 
as they heard the stifled groans of the loved objects cowering 
behincl them for protection. The sound became nearer and 
more distinct; dark forms were seen dimly moving among 
the trees, and then a file of men came out into the clearing. 
They were whites, led on by William Danforth and Arthur 
Jones. The settlers uttered a boisterous shout, threw down 
their arms, and ran in a body to meet the new-comers. The 
women sprang to their feet, some weeping, others laughing in 
hysterical jo}^, and all embracing their children with frantic 
energy. 

Kever were there more welcome guests than the score of 
weary men who refreshed themselves in the various houses of 
the settlement that night. Sentinels were placed, and each 
settler returned to his dwelling, accompanied by three or four 
guests ; every heart beat high, save one — Martha Fellows ; 
she, poor girl, was sad among the general rejoicing ; her lov- 
er had not spoken to her, though she lingered near his side in 
the crowd, and had once almost touched him. Instead of go- 
ing directly to her father’s house, as had been his custom, he 
accepted the Englishman’s invitation, and departed to sleep in 
his dwelling. 

Now this same Englishman had a niece residing with him, 
who was considered by some to be more beautiful than Martha 
herself The humble maiden thought of Jones, and of the 
bright blue eyes of the English girl, till her heart burned with 
the very same jealous feelings she had so ridiculed in her lover, 


26 


^ MALAESKA. 


“ I will see him ! I will see them both !” she exclaimed, 
starting up from the settle where she had remained, full of jeal- 
ous anxiety, since the dispersing of the crowd ; and unheeded 
by her father, who was relating his hunting exploits to the five 
straiigei’s quartered on him, she dashed away her tears, threw 
a shawl over her head, and taking a cup, as an excuse for 
borrowing something, left the house. 

The Englishman’s dwelling stood on the outw’ard verge of 
the clearing, just within the shadow of the forest. Martha 
had almost reached the entrance, when a dark form rushed 
from its covert in the brushwood, and rudely seizing her, dart- 
ed back into the wilderness. The terrified girl uttered a fear- 
ful shriek; for the fierce eyes gazing down upon her, were 
those of a savage. She could not repeat the cry, for the 
wretch crushed her form to his naked chest with a grasp of 
iron, and winding his hand in her hair, was about to dash her 
to the ground. That moment a bullet whistled by her cheek. 
The Indian tiglitened his hold with spasmodic violence, stag- 
gered back, and 'fell to the ground, still girding her in his 
death- grasp ; a moment he writhed in mortal agony — warm 
blood gushed over his victim — the heart under her struggled 
fiercely in its last throes ; then the lifeless arms relaxed, and 
she lay fainting on a corpse. 


THE FIGHT. 


37 





CHAPTER II. 

He laj upon the trampled ground, 

She knelt beside him there, 

While a crimson stream gush’d slowlj 
’Neath the parting of his hair. ^ 

His head was on her bosom thrown — 

She sobb’d his Christian name — 

He smiled, for still he knew her, 

And strove to do the same. — F rank Lee Beneeict. 

“ On, Arthur ! clear Arthur, I am glad it was you that sared 
me,” whispered Martha, about an liour after her rescue, as she 
lay on the settle in her father’s house, with Arthur Jones 
bending anxiously over her. 

Jones dropped the hand he had been holding, and turned 
away with troubled features. 

Martha looked at him, and her eyes were brimming with 
tears. “ Jones,” she said humbly and very affectionately, 
“ Jones, I did wrong the other night, and I am sorry for it ; 
will you forgive me ?” 

“ I will — but never again — never, as I live,” he replied, 
with a stern determination in his manner, accompanied by a 
look that humbled her to the heart. In after years, when 
Martha was Arthur Jones’ wife, and when the stirrings of 
vanity would have led her to trifle witli his feelings, she re- 
membered that look, and dared not brave it a second time. 

At sunrise, the next morning, an armed force went into the 
forest, composed of all who could be spared from the settle- 
ment, amounting to about thirty fighting-men. The Indians, 
encamped about “ the Straka,” more than doubled that num- 
ber, yet the handful of brave whites resolved to offer them a 
decisive combat. 

The little band was approaching the northeastern extremity 
of the Pond, when they halted for a moment to rest. The 
spot on which they stood was level, and thinly timbered. 
Some were sitting on the grass, and others leaning on their 
guns, consulting on their future movements, when a fiendish 
yell arose like the howl of a thousand wild beasts, and, as if 
the very earth had yawned to emit them, a band of warriors 


28 


MALAESKA. 


sprung np in appalling numbers, on the front and rear, and 
approaching them, three abreast, fired into the group with ter- 
rible slaughter. 

The whites returned their fire, and the sounds of murderous 
strife were indeed horrible. Sternl}^ arose the white man’s 
shout amid the blazing of guns and the whizzing of toma- 
hawks, as they flashed through the air on their message of 
blood. Above all, burst out the war-whoop of the savages, 
sometimes rising hoarse, and like the growling of a thousand 
bears ; then, as the barking of as many wolves, and again, 
sharpening to the shrill, unearthly cry of a tribe of wild-cats. 
Oh, it was fearful, that scene of slaughter. Heart to heart, 
and muzzle to muzzle, the white and red man battled in hor- 
rid strife. The trees above them drooped under a cloud of 
smoke, and their trunks were scaiTed with gashes, cut by the 
tomahawks which had missed their more deadly aim. The 
ground was burdened with the dead, and yet the strife raged 
fiercer and fiercer, till the going down of the sun. 

In the midst of the fight was William Danforth. Many a 
dusky form bit the dust, and many a savage howl followed 
the discharge of his trusty gun. But at length it became foul 
with continued use, and he went to the brink of the Pond to 
v^ash it. He was stooping to the water, when the dark form 
of an Indian chief cast its shadow a few feet from him. He, 
too, had come down to clean his gun. The moment he had 
accomplished his purpose, he turned to the white man, who 
had been to him as a son, and drawing his muscular form up 
to its utmost height, uttered a defiance in the Indian tongue. 
Instantly the w^eapons of both were loaded and discharged. 
The tall form of the chief Avavered unsteadily for a moment, 
and fell forAvard, half its length, into the Pond. He strove to 
rise. His hands dashed Avildly on the crimson water, the 
bloAvs grew fainter, and the chief Avas dead. 

The setting sun fell brilliantly over the glittering raiment 
of the prostrate chief — his long, black hair streamed out upon 
the AA’^ater, and the tiny Avaves rippled playfully among the 
gorgeous feathers Avhich had been his savage croAvn. A little 
back, on the green bank, lay Danforth, Avounded unto death. 
He strove to creep to the battle-field, but the blood gushed 
afresh from his wounds, and he fell back upon the earth faint 
and in elespah'. 


THE DYING HUNTER. 


20 


The savages retreated ; the sounds of strife became more 
distant, and the poor youth was left alone with the body of 
the slain warrior. He made one more desperate effort, and 
secured the gun which had belonged to the chief; though 
faint with loss of blood, he loaded that as well as his own, and 
placing them beside him, resolved to defend the remnant of 
life, yet quivering at his heart, to the last moment. The sun 
w^ent slowly down ; the darkness fell like a vail over the lake, 
and there he lay, wounded and alone, in the solitude of the 
wilderness. Solemn and regretful were the thoughts of the 
forsaken man as that night of agony went by. Now his heart 
lingered with strange and terrible dread around the shadowy 
portals of eternity which were opening before him ; again it 
turned with a strong feeling of self-condemnation to his Indian 
wife and the infant pledge of the great love, which had made 
him almost forsake kindred and people for their sakes. 

The moon arose, and the dense shadow of a hemlock, be- 
neath which he had fallen, lay within a few feet of him like 
the wing of a great bird, swayed slowly forward with an im- 
perceptible and yet certain progress. The eyes of the dying 
man were fixed on the margin of the shadow with a keen, 
intense gaze. There was something terrible in its stealthy 
creeping and silent advance, and he strove to elude it as if it 
had been a living thing ; but with every motion the blood 
gushed afresh from his heart, and he fell back upon the sod, 
his white teeth clenched with pain, and his hands clutched 
deep into the damp moss. Still his keen eyes glittered in the 
moonlight with the fevered workings of pain and imagination. 
The shadow on which they turned was to him no shadow, 
but now a nest of serpents, creeping with their insidious coils 
toward him ; and again, a pall — a black funereal pall, dragged 
forward by invisible spirits, and about to shut him out from 
the light forever. Slowly and surely it crept across his damp 
forehead and over his glowing eyes. His teeth unclenched, 
his hands relaxed, and a gentle smile broke over his pale lips, 
when he felt with what a cool and spirit-like touch it visited 
him. Just then a human shadow mingled with that of the 
tree, and the wail of a child broke on the still night air. The 
dying hunter struggled and strove to cry out,— “ Hahieska— 
Ma — Ma — Mala — ” 


30 


MALAESKA. 


The poor Indian girl heard the voice, and with a cry, half 
of frenzied joy and half of fear, sprang to his side. She flung 
her child on the grass and lifted her dying husband to her 
heart, and kissed his damp forehead in a wild, eager agony 
of sorrow. 

“ Malaeska,” said the young man, striving to wind liis arms 
about her, “ my poor girl, what will become of you ? O 
God ! who wdll take care of my boy 

Tiie Indian girl pushed back the damp hair from his fore- 
iiead, and looked -wildly down into his face. A shiver ran 
through her frame when she saw the cold, gray shadow^s of 
death gathering there ; then her black eyes kindled, her beau- 
tiful lip curved to an expression more lofty than a smile, her 
small hand pointed to the West, and the wild religion of her 
race gushed up from her heart, a stream of living poetry. 

“ The hunting-ground of the Indian is yonder, among the 
purple clouds of the evening. The stars are very thick there, 
and the red light is heaped together like mountains in the heart 
of a forest. The sugar-maple gives itp waters all the year 
round, and the breath of the deer is sweet, for it feeds on the 
golden spire-bush and the ripe berries. A lake of bright wa- 
ters is there. The Indian’s canoe flies over it like a bird high 
up in the morning. The West has rolled back its clouds, and 
a great chief has passed through. He will hold back the 
clouds that his white son may go up to the face of the Great 
Spirit. Malaeska and her boj'- will follow. The blood of the 
red man is high in her heart, and the way is open. The lake is 
deep, and the arrow sharp ; death will come when Malaeska 
calls him. Love will make her voice Sweet in the land of the 
Great Spirit ; the wdiite man will hear it, and call her to his 
bosom again !” 

A faint, sad smile flitted over the dying hunter’s face, and her 
voice w^as choked with a pain which was not death. “ My 
poor girl,” he said, “ feebly drawing her kindling face to his 
lips, “ there is no great hunting-ground as you dream. The 
whites have another faith, and — O God ! I have taken away 
her trust, and have none to give in return !” 

The Indian’s face drooped forward, the light of her wild, 
poetic faith had deserted with the hunter’s last words, and a 
feeling of cold desolation settled oji her heart. He was dying 


DEATH OF DANFORTH. 


31 


ou her bosom, and she knew not where lie was going, nor 
that their parting might not be eternal. 

The dying man’s lips moved as if in prayer. “ Forgive me, 
O Father of mercies ! forgive me that I have left tliis poor 
girl in her heathen ignorance,” he murmured, faintly, and liis 
lips continued to move though there was no perceptible sound. 
After a few moments of exhaustion, he fixed his eyes on the 
Indian girl’s face with a look of solemn and touching earn- 
estness. 

“ Malaeska,” he said, “ talk not of putting yourself and the 
boy to death. That would be a sin, and God would punish 
it. To meet me in another world, Malaeska, yon must learn 
to love the white man’s God, and wait patiently till he shall 
send you to me. Go not back to your tribe when I am dead. 
Gown at the mouth of the great river are many whites ; 
among them arc my father and mother. Find your way to 
them, tell them how their son died, and beseech them to 
cherish jmu and the boy for his sake. Tell them how much 
he loved you, my poor girl. Tell them — I can not talk more. 
There is a girl at the settlement, one Martha Fellows ; go to 
her. She knows of you, and has papers — a letter to ra}^ 
father. I did not expect this, but had prepared for it. Go to 
her — you will do this — promise, while I can understand.” 

Malaeska had not wept till now, but her voice was choked, 
and tears fell like rain over the dying man’s face as she made 
the promise. 

He tried to thank her, but the effort died away in a faint 
smile and a tremulous motion of the w'hite lips — “Kiss me, 
Malaeska.” 

The request was faint as a breath of air, but Malaeska 
neard it. She flung herself on his bosom with a passionate 
burst of grief, and her lips clung to his as if they would have 
drawn him back from the very grave. She felt the cold ii])s 
moving beneath the despairing pressure of hers, and lifted her 
head. 

“ The boy, Malaeska ; let me look on my son.” 

The child had crept to his mother’s side, and crouching on 
his hands and knees, sat with his large black eyes filled with a 
strange awe, gazing on the white fiicc of his father. Malaeska 
drew him closer, and with instinctive f<-elings he wound his arms 


32 


MALAESKA. 


round the neck, and nestled his face close to the ashy cheek 
of the dying man. There was a faint motion of the hands as 
if the father would have embraced his child, and then all was 
still. After a time, the child felt the cheek beneath his wax- 
ing hard and cold. He lifted his liead and pored with breath- 
less wonder over the face of his father’s corpse. He looked 
up at his mother. She, too, was bending intently over the 
face of the dead, and her eyes were full of a wild, melancholy 
light. The child was bewildered. He passed his tiny hand 
once more over the cold face, and then crept away, buried his 
liead in the folds of his mother’s dress, and began to cry. 

Morning dawned upon the little lake, quietly and still, as if 
nothing but the dews of heaven and the flowers ot earth had 
ever tasted its freshness ; yet all under the trees, the tender 
grass and the white blossoms, were crushed to the ground, 
stained and trampled in human blood. The delicious light 
broke, like a smile from heaven, over the still bosom of the 
^ waters, and flickered cheeringly through the dewy branches 
of the hemlock which shadowed the prostrate hunter. Bright 
dew-drops lay thickly on his dress, and gleamed, like a shower 
of seed pearls, in his rich, brown hair. The green moss on 
either side was soaked with a crimson stain, and the pale, 
leaden hue of dissolution had settled on his features. He was 
not alone ; for on the same mossy couch lay the body of the 
slaughtered chief ; the limbs were composed, as if on a bier — 
the hair wiped smooth, and the crescent of feathers, broken 
and wet, were arranged with care around his bronzed temples. 
A little way off, on a hillock, purple with flowers, lay a beau- 
tiful child, beckoning to the birds as they fluttered by — pluck- 
ing up the flowers, and uttering his tiny shout of gladness, as 
if death and sorrow were not all around him. Tliere, by the 
side of the dead hunter, sat Malaeska, the widow, her hands 
dropping nervously by her side, her long hair sweeping the 
moss, and her face bowed on her bosom, stupefied with the 
overwhelming poignancy of her grief. Thus she remained, 
motionless and lost in sorrow, till tlie day was at its 
noon. Her child, hungry and tired with play, had cried itself 
to sleep among the flowers ; but the mother knew it not— her 
heart and all her* faculties seemed closed as with a portal of 
ice. 


THE BURIAL. 


38 


That night when the moon was up, the Indian widow dug 
a grave, with her own hands, on the green margin of the lake. 
She laid her husband and her father side by side, and piled 
sods upon them. Then she lifted the wretched and hungry 
babe from the earth, and, with a heavy heart, bent her way 
to “ the Straka.” 


u 


MALAESKA. 


CHAPTER III. 

The sunset fell to the deep, deep stream, 

Ruddy as gold could be, 

While russet brown and a crimson gleam 
Slept in each forest-tree ; 

But the heart of the Indian wife was sad 
As she urged her light canoe. 

While her boy’s young laugh rose high and glad 
When the wild birds o’er them flew. 

IMartha Fellows and lier lover were alone in her father’s 
cabin on the night after the Indian engagement. They v/ere 
both paler than usual, and too anxious about the safety of 
their little village for any thing like happiness, or tranquil 
conversation. The old man had been stationed as sentinel on 
the verge of the clearing ; and as the two sat together in si- 
lence, with hands interlocked, and gazing wistfully in each 
other’s face, a rifle-shot cut sharply from the old man’s sta- 
tion. They both started to their feet, and Martha clung 
shrieking to her lover. Jones forced her back to the settle — 
and, snatching his rifle, sprang to the door. There was a 
sound of approaching footsteps, and with it was mingled tlie 
voice of old Fellows, and the sweeter and more imperfect 
tones of a female, with the sobbing breath of a child. As 
Jones stood wondering at the strange sound, a remarkable 
group darkened the light which streamed from the cabin- 
door. It was Fellows partly supporting and partly dragging 
forward a pale and terrified Indian girl. The light glittered 
upon her picturesque raiment, and revealed - the dark, bright 
eyes of a child which was fastened to her back, and which 
clung to her neck silent with terror and exhaustion. 

“ Come along, you young porcupine! You skulking copper- 
colored little squaw, you ! We sha’nt kill you, nor the little 
pappoose, neither ; so you needn’t shake so. Come along I 
There’s Martha Fellows, if you can find enough of your dar- 
nationed queer English to tell her what you want.” 

As he spoke, the rough, but kind-hearted old man enterea 
the hut, pushing the wretched Malaeska and her child before 
him. 


THE PAPERS. 


So 


“ Martha ! why what in the name of nature makes you 
look so white about the mouth ? You needn’t be afraid of 
this little varmint, no how. She’s as harmless as a garter- 
snaT^e. Come, see if you can find out what she wants of 
you. She can talk the drollest you ever heard. But I’ve 
scared away her senses, and she only stares at me like a shot 
deer.” 

When the Indian heard the name of the astonished girl, 
into whose presence she had been dragged, she withdrev/ 
from the old man’s grasp and stole timidly toward the settle. 

“ The wdiite man left papers with the maiden — Malaeska 
only wants the papers,” she pleaded, placing her small palms 
beseechingly together. 

Martha turned still more pale, and started to her feet. “It 
is true then,” she said, almost wildly. “ Poor Danforth 
is dead, and these forlorn creatures, his vddow and child, 
have come to me at last. Oh ! Jones, he was telling me of 
this the night you got so angry. I could not tell you why 
we were talking so much together ; but I knew all the time 
that he Iiad an Indian wife — it seemed as if he had a forewarn- 
ing of his death, and must tell some one. The last time I 
saw him, he gave me a letter, sealed with black, and bade me 
seek his wife, and persuade her to carry it to his father, if he 
was killed in the figlit. It is that letter she has come after; 
but how will she find her way to Manhattan ?” 

“ Malaeska knows which way the waters run : she can find 
a path down the big river. Give her the papers that she may 
go ?” pleaded the sad voice of the Indian. 

“ Tell us first,” said Jones, addressing her kindly, “ have 
the Indians left our neighborhood ? Is there no danger of 
an attack ?” 

“ The white man need not fear. When the great chief 
died, the smoke of his wigwam went out ; and his people 
have gone beyond the mountains. Malaeska is alone.” 

There was wretchedness and touching pathos in the poor 
girl’s speech, that affected the little group even to tears. 

“ No you a’n’t, by gracious !” exclaimed Fellows, dashing 
his hand across his eyes. “ You shall stay and live with me, 
and help Matt, you shall— and that’s the end on’t. I’ll make 
a farmer of the little pappoose. I’ll bet a beaver-skin that he’ll 


36 


MALAESKA. 


larn to je and haw the oxen and hold plouw afore half the 
" Dutch boys that are springing up here as thick as clover-tops 
in a third year’s clearing.” 

Malaeska did not perfectly understand the kind settler’s 
proposition ; but the tone and manner W'ere kindly, and she 
she knew that he wished to help her. 

“ When the boy’s father was dying, he told Malaeska to go 
to his people, and they would tell her how to find the white 
man’s God. Give her the papers, and she will go? Her 
heart will be full when she thinks of the kind words and the 
soft looks which the white chiefs and the bright-haired maiden 
have given her.” 

“ She goes to fulfill a promise to the dead — we ought not to 
prevent her,” said Jones. 

Malaeska turned her eyes eagerly and gratefully upon him 
as he spoke, and Martha went to her bed and drew the letter, 
which had been intrusted to her care, from beneath the pil- 
low. The Indian took it between her trembling hands, and 
pressing it with a gesture almost of idolatry to her lips, thrust 
it into her bosom. 

“ The white maiden is good ! Farewell !” she turned to- 
ward the door as she spoke. 

“ Stay ! It will take many days to reach Manhattan — ^take 
something to eat, or you will starve on the way,” said Martha, 
compassionately. 

“ Malaeska has her bow and arrow, and she can use them ; 
but she thanks the white maiden. A piece of bread for the 
boy — he has cried to his mother many times for food ; but her 
bosom was full of tears, and she had none to give him.” 

Martha ran to the cupboard and brought forth a large frag- 
ment of bread and a cup of milk. When the child saw the 
food, he uttered a soft, hungry murmur, and his little fingers 
began to work eagerly on his mother’s neck. Martha held 
the cup to his lips, and smiled through her tears to see how 
hungrily he swallowed, and with what a satisfied and pleased 
look his large, black eyes were turned up to hers as he drank. 
When the cup was withdrawn, the boy breathed a deep sigh 
of satisfaction, and let his head fall sleepily on his mother’s 
shoulder, her large eyes seemed full of moonlight, and a gleam 
of pleasure shot athwart her sad features, she unbound a brace- 


MALAESKA’S JOUENET. 


87 


let of wampum from her arm and placed it in Martha’s hand. 
The next instant she was lost in the darkness without. The 
kind settler rushed out, and hallooed for her to come hack ; 
but her step was like that of a fawn, and while he was wan- 
dering fruitlessly around the settlement, she reached the margin 
of the creek ; and, unmooring a canoe, which lay concealed 
in the sedge, placed herself in it, and shot round the point to 
the broad bosom of the Hudson. 

Night and morning, for many successive days, that frail 
canoe glided down the current, amid the wild and beautiful 
scenery of the Highlands, and along the park-like shades of a 
more level country. There was something in the sublime 
and lofty handiwork of God which fell soothingly on the sad 
heart of the Indian. Her thoughts were continually dwelling 
on the words of her dead husband, ever picturing to them- 
selves the land of spirits where he had promised that she 
should join him. The perpetual change of scenery, the sun- 
shine playing with the foliage, and the dark, heavy masses of 
shadow, flung from the forests and the rocks on either hand, 
were continually exciting her untamed imagination to compar- 
ison with the heaven of her wild fancy. It seemed, at times, 
as if she had but to close her eyes and open them again to be 
in the presence of her lost one. There was something heav- 
enly in the solemn, perpetual flow of the river, and in the 
music of the leaves as they rippled to the wind, that went to 
the poor widow’s heart like the soft voice of a friend. After 
a day or two, the gloom which hung about her young brow, 
partially departed. Her cheek again dimpled to the happy 
laugh of her child, and when he nestled down to sleep hi the 
furs at the bottom of the canoe, her soft, plaintive lullaby 
would steal over the waters like the song of a wild bird seek- 
ing in vain for its mate. 

Malaeska never went on shore, except to gather wild fruit, 
and occasionally to kill a bird, which her true arrow seldom 
failed to bring down. She would strike a fire and prepare 
her game in some shady nook by the river side, while the 
canoe swung at its mooring, and her child played on the fresh 
grass, shouting at the cloud of summer insects that flashed 
by, and clapping his tiny hands at the humming-birds that 
came to rifle honey from the flowers that surrounded him. 


38 


MALAESK.A. 


The voj^age was one of strange happiness to the widowed 
Indian. Never did Christian believe in the pages of Divine 
Writ with more of trust, than she placed in the dying promise 
of her husband, that she should meet him again in another 
v/orld. His spirit seemed forever about her, and to her wild, 
free imagination, the passage down the magnificent stream 
seemed a material and glorious path to the v/hite man’s 
heaven. Filled with strange, sweet thoughts, she looked 
abroad on the mountains looming up from the banks of the 
river — on the forest-trees so various in their tints, and so richly 
clothed, till she was inspired almost to forgetfulness of her af- 
fliction. She was young and healthy, and every thing about 
her was so lovely, so grand and changing, that her heart ex- 
panded to the sunshine like a flower which has been bowed 
down, but not crushed beneath the force of a storm. Part of 
each day she spent in a wild, dreamy state of imagination. Her 
mind was lulled to sweet musings by the gentle sounds that 
hovered in the air from morning till evening, and through the 
long night, when all was hushed save the deep flow of the 
river. Birds came out with their cheerful voices at dawn, 
and at midday she floated in the cool shadow of the hills, or 
shot into some cove for a few hours’ rest. When the sunset 
shed its gorgeous dyes over the river — and the mountain ram- 
parts, on either side, were crimsom as with the track of con- 
tending armies— when the boy was asleep, and the silent stars 
came out to kindle up her night patli, then a clear, bold mel- 
ody gushed from the mother’s lips like a song from the heart 
of a nightingale. Her eye kindled, her cheek grew warm, 
the dip of her paddle kept a liquid accompaniment to her rich, 
wild voice, as the canoe floated downward on waves that 
seemed rippling over a world of crushed blossoms, and were 
misty with the approach of evening. 

Malaeska had been out many days, when the sharp gables 
and the tall chimneys of Manhattan broke upon her view, sur- 
rounded by the sheen of its broad bay, and by the forest 
which covered the uninhabited part of the island. The poor 
Indian gazed upon it with an unstable but troublesome fear. 
She urged her canoe into a little cove on the Hoboken shore, 
and her heart grew heavy as the grave, as she pondered on 
the means of fulfilling her charge. She took the letter from 


AimiVAL AT MANHATTAN. 


39 


her bosom ; tlie tears started to her eyes, and she kissed it 
with a regretful sorrow, as if a friend were about to be rend- 
ered up from her affections forever. She took the child to 
her heart, and held him there till its throbbings grew audible, 
and the strength of her misgivings could not be restrained. 
After a time she became more calm. She lifted the child 
from her bosom, laved his hands and face in the stream, and 
brushed his black hair with her palm till it glowed like the 
neck of a raven. Then she girded his little crimson robe with 
a string of wampum, and after arranging her own attire, shot 
the canoe out of the cove and urged it slowly across the 
mouth of the river. Her eyes were full of tears all the way, 
and when the child murmured, and strove to comfort her 
with his infant caress, she sobbed aloud, and rowed steadily 
forward. 

It was a strange sight to the phlegmatic inhabitants of 
Manhattan, when Malaeska passed through their streets in full 
costume, and with the proud, free tread of her race. Her 
hair hung^ in long braids down her back, each braid fastened 
at the end with a tuft of scarlet feathers. A coronet of the 
same bright plumage circled her small head, and her robe was 
gorgeous with beads, and fringed with porcupine quills. A 
bow of exquisite workmanship was in her hand, and a scarf 
of scarlet cloth bound the boy to her back. Nothing could 
be more strikingly beautiful than the child. His spirited 
head was continually turning from one strange object to an- 
other, and his bright, black eyes were brim-full of childish 
wonder. One little arm was flung around his young mothers 
neck, and its fellow rested on the feathered arrow-shafts 
which crowded the quiver slung against her left shoulder. 
The timid, anxious look of the mother, was in strong contrast 
with the eager gaze of the boy. She had caught much of the 
delicacy and refinement of civilized life from her husband, 
and her manner became startled and fawn-like beneath the 
rude gaze of the passers-by. The modest blood burned m 
her cheek, and the sweet, broken English trembled on her 
lips, when several persons, to whom she showed the letter, 
passed by without answering her. She did not know that 
they were of another nation than her husband, and spoke an- 
other language than that which love had taught her. At length 


40 


MALAESKA. 


she accosted an aged man who could comprehend her imper- 
fect language. He read the name on the letter, and saw that 
it was addressed to his master, John Danforth, the richest fur- 
trader in Manhattan. The old serving-man led the way to a 
large, irregular building, in the vicinit}’- of wliat is now Han- 
over Square. Malaeska followed with a lighter tread, and a 
Iieart relieved of its fear. She felt that she had found a friend 
in the kind old man who was conducting her to the home of 
her husband’s father. • 

The servant entered this dwelling and led the way to a low 
parlor, paneled with oak and lighted with small panes of 
thick, greenish glass. A series of Dutch tiles — some of them 
most exquisite in finish and design, surrounded the fire-place, 
and a coat-of-arms, elaborately carved in oak, stood out in 
strong relief from the paneling above. A carpet, at that 
time an uncommon luxury, covered a greater portion of the 
floor, and the furniture was rich in its material, and ponder- 
ous with heavy carved work. A tall, and rather hard-featured 
man sat in an arm-chair by one of the narrow windows, read- 
mg a file of papers which had just arrived in the last mer- 
chant-ship from London. A little distance from him, a slight 
and very thin lady of about fifty was occupied with household 
sewing ; her work-box stood on a small table before her, and 
a book of common-prayer lay beside it. The servant had in- 
tended to announce his strange guests, but, fearful of losing 
sight of him, Malaeska followed close upon his footsteps, and 
before he was aware of it, stood within the room, holding her 
child by the hand. 

“ A woman, sir, — an Indian woman, with a letter,” said the 
embarrassed servant, motioning his charge to draw back. But 
Malaeska had stepped close to the merchant, and was looking 
earnestly in his face when he raised his eyes from the papers. 
There was something cold in his severe gaze as he fixed it on 
her through his spectacles. The Indian felt chilled and re- 
pulsed; her heart was full, and she turned with a look of 
touching appeal to the lady. That face was one to which a 
child would have fled for comfort ; it was tranquil and full 
of kindness. Malaeska’s face brightened as she went up to 
her, and placed the letter in her hands without speaking a 
word ; but the palpitation of her heart was visible through 


SAD TIDINGS. 


41 


her heavy garments, and her hands shook as she relinquished 
the precious paper. 

“ The seal is black,” said the lady, turning very pale as she 
gave the letter to her husband, “ but it is Ms writing,” she 
added, with a forced smile. “ He could not have sent word 
himself, -were he — ill.” She hesitated at the last word, for, 
spite of herself, the thoughts of death lay heavily at her heart. 

The merchant composed himself in his chair, settled his 
spectacles, and after another severe glance at the bearer, opened 
the letter. His wife kept her eyes fixed anxiously on his face 
as he read. She saw that his face grew pale, that his high, 
narrow forehead contracted, and that the stern mouth became 
still more rigid in its expression. She knew that some evil 
had befallen her son — her only son, and she grasped a chair 
for support ; her lips were bloodless, and her eyes became 
keen with agonizing suspense. When her husband had read 
the letter through, she went close to him, but looked another 
way as she spoke. 

“ Tell me ! has any harm befallen my son ?” Her voice 
was low and gentle, but husky with suspense. 

Her husband did not answer, but his hand fell heavily upon 
his knee, and the letter rattled in his unsteady grasp, his eyes 
were fixed on his trembling wife with a look that chilled her 
to the heart. She attempted to withdraw the letter from his 
hand, but he clenched it the firmer. 

“ Let it alone — he is dead— murdered by the savages — why 
should you know more ?” 

The poor woman staggered back, and the fire of anxiety 
went out from her eyes. 

“ Can there be any thing worse than death — the death of 
the first-born of oi.r youth — cut off in bis proud manhood ?” 
she murmured, in a low, broken voice. 

“Yes, woman I” said the husband, almost fiercely; “there 
is a thing worse than death — disgrace !” 

“Disgrace coupled with my son? You are his father, 
John. Do not slander him now that he is dead — before his 
mother, too.” There was a faint, red spot then upon that 
mild woman’s face, and her mouth curved proudly as she 
spoke. All that was stern in her nature had been aroused by 
the implied charge against the departed. 


43 


MALAESKA. 


“ Read, woman, read ! Look on that accursed wretch und 
her child ! They have enticed him into their savage hannts, 
and murdered him. Now they come to^claim protection and 
reward for the foul deed.” ' 

Malaeska drew her child closer to her as she listened to 
this vehement language, and shrank slowly hack to a corner 
of the room, where she crouched, like a frightened hare, look- 
ing wildly about, as if seeking some means to evade the ven- 
geance v/hich seemed to threaten her. 

After the first storm of feeling, the old man buried his face 
in his hands and remained motionless, while the sobs of his 
wife, as she read her son’s letter, alone broke the stillness of 
the room. 

Malaeska felt those tears as an encouragement, and her own 
deep feelings taught her how to reach those of another. She 
drew timidly to the mourner and sunk to her feet. 

“ Will the white woman look upon Malaeska?” she said, in 
a voice full of humility and touching earnestness. “ She loved 
ihe young white chief, and when the shadows fell upon his 
soul, he said that his mother’s heart would grow soft to the 
poor Indian woman who had slept in his bosom Vvdiile she 
was very young. He said that her love would open to his 
boy like a flower to the sunshine. Will the white woman 
look upon the boy ? He is like his father.” 

“ He is, poor child, he is !” murmured the bereaved mother, 
looking on the boy through her tears — “ like him, as he was 
when we were both young, and he the blessing of our hearts. 
Oh, John, do you remember his smile ? — how his cheek would 
dimple when we kissed it ! Look upon this poor, fatherless 
creature ; they are all here agam ; the sunny eye and the 
broad forehead. Look upon him, John, for my sake — for the 
sake of our dead son, who prayed us with his last breath to 
love Ms son. Look upon him !” 

The kind woman led the child to her husband as she spoke, 
and resting her arm on his shoulder, pressed her lips upon his 
swollen temples? The pride of his nature was touehed. His 
bosom heaved, and tears gushed through his rigid fingers. 
He felt a little form draw close to his knee, and a tiny, soft 
hand strive with its feeble might to uncover his face. The 
voice of nature was strong within him. His hands dropped, 


THE GKANDFATnER. 


43 


and he pored with a troubled face over the uplifted features 
of the child. 

Tears were in those young, bright eyes as they returned 
his grandfather’s gaze, but when a softer expression came into 
the old man’s face, a smile broke through them, and the little 
fellow lifted both his arms and clasped them over the bowed 
neck of his grandfather. _There was a momentary struggle, 
and then the merchant folded tlie boy to his heart with a 
burst of strong feeling such as his iron nature had seldom 
known. 

“ He is like his father. Let the woman go back to her 
tiibe ; we will keep the boy.” 

Malaeska sprang forward, clasped her hands, and turned 
with an air of wild, heart-thrilling appeal to the lady. 

“ You will not send Malaeska from her child. Ho — no, 
white woman. Your boy has^ slept against your heart, and 
you have felt his voice in your ear, like the song of a 3mung 
mocking-bird. You would not send the poor Indian back to 
the woods without her child. She has come to you from the 
forest, that she may learn the path to the white man’s heaven, 
and see her husband again, and jmu will not show it her. 
Give the Indian woman her boy ; her heart is growing very 
strong ; she will not go back to the woods alone !” 

As she spoke these words, with an air more energetic even 
than her spee/*;?, she snatched the child from his grandfather’s 
arms, and stood like a lioness guarding her young, her lips 
writhing and her black e^^es flashing fire, for the savage blood 
kindled in her veins at the thought of being separated from 
her son. 

“Be quiet, girl, -be quiet. If 3^11 go, the child shall go 
with you,” said the gentle Mrs. Danfortli. “ Do not give way 
to this fiery spirit ; no one will wrong 3mu.” 

Malaeska dropped her air of defiance, and placing the child 
humbl3^ at his grandfather’s feet, drew back, and stood with 
her eyes cast dov.m, and her hands clasped deprecatingly to- 
gether, a posture of supplication in strong contrast with her 
late wild demeanor. 

“Let them stay. Do not separate the mother and the child ?” 
entreated the kind lady, anxious to soothe av/ay the effect of 
her husband’s violence. The thoughts of a separation drives 


44 . 


MALJJLSKA. 


her wild, poor thing. He loved her; — why should we send 
her back to her savage haunts ? Read this letter once more, 
my husband. You can not refuse the dying request of our 
first-born.” 

With gentle and persuasive words like these, the kind lady 
prevailed. Malaeska was allowed to remain in the house of 
her husband’s father, but it was only as the nurse of her own 
son. She was not permitted to acknowledge herself as his 
mother ; and it was given out that young Danforth had mar- 
ried in one of the new settlements — that the young couple 
had fallen victims to the savages, and that their infant son had 
been rescued by an Indian girl, who brought him to^his grand- 
father. The story easily gained credit, and it was no matter 
of wonder that the old fur merchant soon became fondly at- 
tached to the little orphan,' or that the preserver of his grand- 
child was made an object of grateful attention in his house- 
hold. 


THE PROUD GRANDFATHER. 


45 


CHAPTER IV. 

Her heart is in the wild wood ; 

Her heart is not here. 

Her heart is in the wild wood ; 

It was hunting the deer.” 

It would have been an unnatural thing, had that picturesque 
young mother abandoned the woods, and prisoned herself in a 
quaint old Dutch house, under the best circumstances. The 
wild bird, which has fluttered freely from its nest through a 
thousand forests, might as well be expected to love its cage, as 
this poor wild girl her new home, with its dreary stillness and 
its leaden regularity. But love was all-powerful in that wild 
heart. It had brought Malaeska from her forest home, sepa- 
rated her from her tribe in its hour of bitter defeat, and sent 
her a forlorn wanderer among strangers that regarded her 
almost with loathing. 

The elder Danforth was a just man, but hard as granite in 
his prejudices. An only son had been murdered by the 
savages to whom this poor young creature belonged. His 
blood — all of his being that might descend to posterity — had 
been mingled with the accursed race who had sacrificed him. 
Gladly would he have rent the two races asunder, in the very 
person of his gi-andchild, could the pure half of his being been 
thus preserved. 

But he was a proud, childless old man, and there was 
something in the boy’s eyes, in the brave lift of his head, and 
in his caressing manner, which filled the void in his heart, 
half with love and half with pain. He could no more separate 
the two passions in his own soul, than he could drain the 
savage blood from the little boy’s veins. 

But the house-mother, the gentle wife, who could see noth- 
ing but her son’s smile in that young face, nothing but his 
look in the large eyes, which, black in color, still possessed 
something of the azure light that had distinguished those of 
the father. 


40 


MALAESKA. 


The boy was more cheerful and bu’d-like than his mother; 
for all her youth had gone out on the banks of the pond where 
her husband died. Always submissive, always gentle, she was 
nevertheless a melancholy woman. A bird which had followed 
its young out into strange lands, and caged it there, could not 
have hovered around it more hopelessly. 

Nothing but her husband’s dying wish would have kept 
Malaeska in Manhattan. She thought of her own people 
incessantly — of her broken, harassed tribe, desolated by the 
death of her hither, and whose young chief she had carried 
off and given to strangers. 

But shame dyed Malaeska’s cheek as she thought of these 
things. What right had she, an Indian of the pure blood, to 
bring the grandchild of her father under the roof of his ene- 
mies? Why had she not taken the child in her arms and 
joined her people as they sang the death-chant for her father, 
“who,” she murmured to herself again and again, “was a 
gi'eat chief,” and retreated with them deep into the wilderness, 
to which they were driven, giving them a chief in her son ? 

But no ! passion had been too strong in Malaeska’s heart. 
The woman conquered the patriot ; and the refinement which 
affection had given her, enslaved the wild nature without 
returning a compensation of love for the sacrifice. She pined 
for her people — all the more that they were in peril and sor- 
row. She longed for the shaded forest-paths, and the pretty 
lodge, with its couches of fur and its floor of blossoming turf. 
To her the very winds seemed chained among the city houses ; 
and when she heard them sighing through the gables, it seemed 
to her that they were moaning for freedom, as she was in the 
solitude of her lonely life. 

They had taken the child from her. A white nurse was 
found, Avho stepped in between the young heir and his mother, 
thrusting her ruthlessly aside. In this the old man was obsti- 
nate. The wild blood of the boy must be quenched ; he must 
know nothing of the race from which his disgrace sprang. If 
the Indian woman remained under his roof, it must be as a 
menial, and on condition that all natural affection lay crushed 
within her — unexpressed, unguessed at by the household. 

But Mrs. Danforth had compassion on the poor mother. 
She remembered the time when her own child had made all 


THE TEJ^DER GRANDMOTHER. 


47 


the pulses of her being thrill with love, which now took the 
form of a thousand tender regrets. She could not watch the 
lone Indian stealing off to her solitary room under the gable 
roof— a mother, yet childless — without throbs of wmmanly sor- 
row. She w^as far too good a wife to brave her husband’s 
authority, but, with the cow^ardliness of a kind heart, she 
frequently managed to evade it. Sometimes in the night she 
would creep out of her prim chamber, and steal the boy from 
the side of his nurse, whom she bore on her own motherly 
bosom to the solitary bed of Malaeska. 

As if Malaeska had a premonition of the kindliness, she was 
sure to be widfe awake, thinking of her child, and ready to 
gush forth in murmurs of thankfulness for the joy of clasping 
her own son a moment to that lonely heart. 

Then the grandmother would steal to her husband’s side 
again, charging it upon her memory to awake before daylight, 
and carry the boy back to the stranger’s bed, making her 
gentle charity a secret as if it had been a sin. 

It was pitiful to see Malaeska haunting the footsteps of her 
boy all the day long. If he w^as taken into the garden, she 
w'as sure to be hovering around the old pear-trees, w^here she 
could sometimes unseen lure him from his play, and lavish 
kisses on his mouth as he laughed recklessly, and strove to 
abandon her for some bright flower or butterfly that crossed 
his path. This snatch of affection, this stealthy way of ap- 
peasing a hungry nature, was enough to drive a well-tutored 
woman mad ; as for Malaeska, it was a marvel that she could 
tame her erratic nature into the abject position allotted her in 
that family. She had neither the occupation of a servant, nor 
the interests of an equal. 

Forbidden to associate with the people in the kitchen, yet 
never w^elcomed in the formal parlor when its master was at 
home, she hovered around the halls and corners of the house, 
or hid herself away in the gable chambers, embroidering beau- 
tiful trifles on scraps of silk and fragments of bright cloth, 
wdth wdiich she strove to bribe the woman who controlled her 
child, into forbearance and kindness. 

But alas, poor w^oman ! submission to the wishes of the dead 
w'as a terrible duty ; her poor heart was breaking all the time ; 
she had no hope, no life ; the very glance of her eye was an 


48 


MALAESKA. 


appeal for mercy ; her step, as it fell on the turf, was leaden 
with despondency — she had nothing on earth to live for. 

This state of things arose when the child was a little boy ; 
but as he grew older the bitterness of Malaeska’s lot became 
more intense. The nurse who had supplanted her went away ; 
for he was becoming a fine lad, and far removed from the need 
of woman’s care. But this brought her no nearer to his affec- 
tions. The Indian blood was strong in his young veins ; he 
loved such play as brought activity and danger with it, and 
broke from the Indian woman’s caresses with a sort of scorn, 
and she knew that the old grandfather’s prejudices was taking 
root in his heart, and dared not utter a protest. She was for- 
bidden to lavish tenderness on her son, or to call forth his in 
return, lest it might create suspicion of the relationship. 

In his early boyhood, she could steal to his chamber at 
night, and give free indulgence to the wild tenderness of her 
nature ; but after a time even the privilege of watching him in 
his sleep was denied to her. Once, when she broke the tired 
boy’s rest by her caresses, he became petulant, and chided her 
for her obtrusiveness. The repulse went to her heart like iron. 
She had no power to plead ; for her life, she dared not tell 
him the secret of that aching love which she felt — too cruelly 
felt — oppressed his boyhood ; for that would be to expose the 
disgrace of blood which embittered the old man’s pride. 

She was his mother ; yet her very existence in that house 
was held as a reproach. Every look that she dared to cast on 
her child, was watched jealously as a fault. Poor Malaeska ! 
hers was a sad, sad life. 

She had borne every thing for years, dreaming, poor thing, 
that the eternal cry that, went up from her heart would be 
answered, as the boy grew older ; but when he began to shrink 
proudly from her caresses, and question the love that was kill- 
ing her, the despair which smoldered at her heart broke forth, 
and the forest blood spoke out with a power that not even a 
sacred memory of the dead could oppose. A wild idea seized 
upon her. She would no longer remain in the white man’s 
house, like a bird beating its wings against the wires of a cage. 
The forests were wide and green as ever. Her people might 
yet be found. She would seek them in the wilderness. The 
boy should go with her, and become the chief of his tribe, as 


THE BOAT-BUILDEK. 


40 


her father had been. That old man should not forever trample 
down her heart. There was a free life which she would find 
or die. 

The boy’s childish petulance had created this wild wish in 
his mother’s heart. Tlie least sign of repulsion drove her 
frantic. She began to thirst eagerly for her old free existence 
in the woods ; but for the blood of her husband, which ran in 
the old man’s veins, she would have given way to the savage 
hate of her people, against the household in which she had 
been so unhappy. As it was, she only panted to be away 
with her child, who must love her when no white man stood 
by to rebuke him. With her aroused energies the native ret- 
icence of her tribe came to her aid. The stealthy art of w^ar- 
fare against an enemy awoke. They should not know how 
wretched she was. Her plans must be securely made. Every 
step toward freedom should be carefully considered. These 
thoughts occupied Malaeska for days and weeks. She became 
active in her little chamber. The bow and sheaf of arrows 
that had given her the appearance of a young Diana when she 
came to Manhattan in her canoe, was taken down from the 
wall, newly strung, and the stone arrow heads patiently sharp- 
ened. Her dress, with its gorgeous embroidery of fringe and 
w^ampum, was examined with care. She must return to her 
people as she had left them. The daughter of a chief— the 
mother of a chief— not a fragment of the white man’s bounty 
should go with her to the forest. 

Cautiously, and with something of native craft, Malaeska 
made her preparations. Down upon the shores of the Hud- 
son, lived an old carpenter who made boats for a living. Ma- 
laeska had often seen him at his work, and her rude knowl- 
edge of his craft gave peculiar interest to the curiosity with 
which she regarded him. The Indian girl had long been an 
object of his especial interest, and the carpenter was fiattered 
by her admiration of his work. 

One day she came to his house with a look of eager watch- 
fulness. Her step was hurried, her eye wild as a hawk’s when 
its prey is near. The old man was finishing a fanciful little 
craft, of whicli he was proud beyond any thing. It was so 
light, so strong, so beautifully decorated with bands of red and 
white around the edge — no wonder the young woman’s eyes 
brightened when she saw it. 


50 


MALAESKA. 


“ What would he take for the boat ?” That was a droll 
question from her. Y/^hy lie had built it to please his own 
fancy. A pair of oars would make it skim the water like a 
bird. He had built it with an eye to old Mr. Danforth, who 
had been down to look at his boats for that dark-eyed grand- 
son, whom he seemed to worship. None of his boats were 
fanciful or light enough for the lad. So he had built this at a 
venture. 

Malaeska’s eyes kindled brighter and brighter. Yes, yes; 
she too was thinking of the young gentleman ; she would 
bring him to look at the boat. Mrs. Danforth often trusted 
the boy out with her ; if he would only tell the price, perhaps 
they might be able to bring the money, and give the boat a 
trial on the Hudson. 

The old man laughed, glanced proudly at his handiwork, 
and named a price. It was not too much ; Malaeska had 
double that amount in the embroidered pouch that hung in her 
little room at home. For the old gentleman had been liberal 
to her in every thing but kindness. She went home elated 
and eager; all was in readiness. The next day — oh, how her 
heart glowed as she thought of the next day ! 


A TENDER FAREWELL. 


51 


I 

CHAPTER Y . 

Her boat is on the river, 

With the boy by her side ; 

With her bow and her quiver 
She stands in her pride. 

The next afternoon old Mr. Danforth was absent from 
home. A municipal meeting, or something of that kind, was 
to be attended, and he was always prompt in the performance 
of public duties. The good housewife had not been well for 
some days, Malaeska, always a gentle nurse, attended her 
with unusual assiduit5L There was something evidently at 
work in the Indian woman’s heart. Her lips were pale, her 
eyes full of pathetic trouble. After a time, when weariness 
made the old lady sleepy, Malaeska stole to the bedside, and 
kneeling down, kissed the withered hand that fell over the 
bed, with strange humility. This action was so light that the 
good lady did not heed it, but afterward it came to her like a 
dream, and as such she remembered this leave-taking of the 
poor mother. 

William — for the lad was named after his father — was in a 
moody state that afternoon. He had no playfellows, for the 
indisposition of his grandmother had shut all strangers from 
tlie house, so he went into the garden, and began to draw the 
outlines of a rude fortification from the white pebbles that 
paved the principal walk. He was interrupted in the work 
by a pair of orioles, that came dashing through the leaves of 
an old apple-tree in a far end of the garden, in full chase and 
pursuit, making the very air vibrate with their rapid motion. 

After chasing each other up and down, to and fro in the 
clear sunshine, they were attracted by something in the dis- 
tance, and darted off like a couple of golden arrows, sending 
back wild gushes of music in the start. 

The boy had been watching them with his great eyes full of 
envious delight. Their riotous freedom charmed him ; he felt 
chained and caged even in that spacious garden, full of golden 


52 


MALAESKA. 


fruit and bright flowers as it was. The native-fire kindled in 
his frame. 

“ Oh, if I were only a bu'd, that could fly home when I 
pleased, and away to the woods again — the bright, beautiful 
woods that I can see across the river, but never must play in. 
How the birds must love it though !” 

The boy stopped speaking, for, like any other child kept to 
himself, he was talking over his thoughts aloud. But a shadow 
fell across the white pebbles on which he sat, and this it was 
which disturbed him. 

It was the Indian woman, Malaeska, with a forced smile on 
her face and looking wildly strange. She seemed larger and 
more stately than when he had seen her last. In her hand 
she held a light bow tufted with yellow and crimson feathers. 
When she saw his eyes brighten at the sight of the bow, Ma- 
laeska took an arrow from the sheaf which she carried unde’* 
her cloak, and fitted it to the string. 

“ See, this is what we learn in the woods.” 

The two birds were wheeling to and fro across the garden 
and out into the open space ; their plumage flashed in the 
sunshine and gushes of musical triumph floated back as one 
shot ahead of the other. Malaeska lifted her bow with some- 
thing of her old forest gracefulness — a famt twang of the bow- 
string — a sharp whiz of the arrow, and one of the birds flut- 
tered downward, wdth a sad little cry, and fell upon the 
ground, trembling like a broken poplar flower. 

The boy started up — his eye brightened and his thin nostrils 
dilated, the savage instincts of his nature broke out in all his 
features. 

“And you learned how to do this in the woods, Malaeska?” 
he said, eagerly. 

“ Yes ; will you learn too ?” 

“ Oh, yes — give hold here — quick — quick !” 

“ Not here ; we learn these things in the woods ; come 
with me, and I will show you all about it.” 

Malaeska grew pale as she spoke, and trembled in all her 
limbs. What if the boy refused to go with her ? 

“ What, over the river to the woods that look so bright 
and so brown when the nuts fall ? Will you take me there, 
Malaeska ?” 


AWAY TO THE WOODS. 


63 


“ Yes, over the river where it shines like silver.” 

“ You will, oh my ! — but how ?” 

“ Hush ! not so loud. In a beautiful little boat.” 

“ With white sails, Malaeska ?” 

“ No — with paddles.” 

“ Ah, me ! — but I can’t make them go in the water ; once 
grandfather let me try, but I had to give it up.” 

“ But I can make them go.” 

“You ! why, that isn’t a woman’s work.” 

“ No, but everybody learns it in the woods.” 

“ Can I ?” 

“ Yes !” 

“ Then come along before grandfather comes to say we 
shan’t ; come along, I say ; I want to shoot and run and live 
in the woods — come along, Malaeska. Quick, or somebody 
will shut the gate.” 

Malaeska looked warily around — on the windows of the 
house, through the thickets, and along the gravel walks. No 
one was in sight. She and her boy were all alone. She 
breathed heavily and lingered, thinking of the poor lady 
within. 

“ Come !” cried the boy, eagerly ; “ I want to go — come 
along to the woods.” 

“ Yes, yes,” whispered Malaeska, “ to the woods — it is our 
home. There I shall be a mother once more.” 

With the steps of a young deer, starting for its covert, she 
left the garden. The boy kept bravely on with her, bounding 
forward with a laugh when her step was too rapid for him to 
keep up with it. Thus, in breathless haste, they passed 
through the town into the open country and along the rough 
banks of the river. 

A little inlet, worn by the constant action of the water, ran 
up into ihe shore, which is now broken with wharves and 
bristling witli masts. A clump of old forest-hemlocks bent 
over the waters, casting cool, green shadows upon it till the 
sun was far in the west. 

In these shadows, rocking sleepily on the ripples, lay the 
pretty boat which Malaeska had purchased. A painted 
basket, such as the peaceful Indians sometimes sent to market, 
stood in the stern stored with bread ; a tiger-skin, edged with 


54 


MALAESKA. 


crimson cloth, according to the Indian woman’s fancy, lay 
along the bottom of the boat, and cushions of scarlet cloth, 
edged with an embroidery of beads, lay on the seat. 

William Danforth broke into a shout when he saw the 
boat and its appointments. 

“ Are Ave going in this ? May I learn to row, now — now ?” 
With a leap he sprang into the little craft, and seizing the 
oars, called out for her to come on, for he was in a hurry to 
begin. 

Malaeska loosened the cable, and holding the end in her 
hand, sprang to the side of her child. 

“ Not yet, my chief, not yet ; give the oars to me a little 
while ; when Ave can no longer see the steeples, you shall pull 
them,” she said. 

The boy gave up his place Avith an impattent toss of his 
head, which sent the black curls flying OA^er his temples. But 
the boat shot out into the river with a velocity that tooic 
away his breath, and he sat doAvn in the boAA% laughing as the 
silver spray rained over him. With her face to the north, and 
lier eyes flashing with the eager joy of escape, Malaeska dash- 
ed up the river ; every plunge of the oars Avas a step toward 
freedom — every gleam of the sun struck her as a smile from 
the Great Spirit to Avhom her husband and father had gone. 

When the sun went doAvn, and the twilight came on, the 
little boat was far up the river. It had glided under the shad- 
ows of WeehaAvken, and Avas skirting the Avestern shore to- 
Avard the Highlands, at that time croAvned by an unbroken 
forest, and savage in the grandeur of wild nature. 

Noav Malaeska listened to the entreaties of her boy, and 
gave the oars into his small hands. No matter though the 
boat receded under his brave but imperfect efforts ; once out 
of sight of the town, Malaeska had less fear, and smiled se- 
curely at the energy with which the little felloAV beat the Ava- 
ters. He Avas indignant if she attempted to help him, and 
the next moment was sure to send a storm of rain over her in 
some more desperate effort to prove how capable he was of 
taking the labor from her hands. 

Thus the night came on, soft and calm, wrapping the mo- 
ther and child in a world of silvery moonbeams. The shad- 
dows which lay along the hills bounded their Avatery patli 


THE BOY BECOMES IIOME-SICK. 


55 


■with gloom. This made the boy sad, and he began to feel 
mournfully weary; but scenes like this were familiar with 
Malaeska, and her old nature rose high and free in tliis soli- 
tude which included all that she had in the living world — her 
freedom and the son of her white husband. 

“ Malaeska,” said the boy, creeping to her side, and laying 
his head on her lap, “ Malaeska, I am tired — I want to go 
home.” 

“ Home ! but you have not seen the woods. Courage, my 
chief, and we will go on shore.” 

“ But it is black — so black, and something is crying there — 
something that is sick or wants to get home like me.” 

“ Ho, no, — it is only a whippowil singing to the night.” 

“ A whippowil ? Is that a little boy, Malaeska ? Let us 
bring him into the boat.” 

“ No, my child, it is only a bird.” 

“ Poor bird !” sighed the boy ; “ how it wants to get home.” 

“ No, it loves the woods. The bird would die if you took 
it from the shade of the trees,” said Malaeska, striving to 
pacify the boy, who crept upward into her lap and laid his 
cheek against hers. She felt that he trembled, and that tears 
lay cold on his cheeks. “ Don’t, my William, but look up 
and see how many stars hang over us — the river is full of 
them.” 

“ Oh, but grandfather will be missing me,” pleaded the boy. 

Malaeska felt herself chilled ; she had taken the boy, but, 
not his memory that went back to the opulent home he had 
left. With her at his side, and the beautiful universe around, 
he thought of the old man who had made her worse than a 
serf in his household — who had stolen away the human soul 
that God had given into her charge. The Indian woman 
grew sad to the very depths of her soul when the boy spoke 
of his grandfather. 

“ Come,” she said, with mournful pathos, “ now we will 
find an open place in the woods. You shall have a bed like 
the pretty flowers. I will build a fire, and you shall see it 
grow red among the branches.” 

The boy smiled in the moonlight. 

“ A fire out of doors ! Yes, yes, let’s go into the woods. 
Will the birds talk to us there ?” 


5G 


MALAESKA. 


“ The birds talk to us always when we get into the deep 
of the woods.” 

Malaeska urged her boat into a little inlet that ran up be- 
tween two great rocks upon the shore, where it was sheltered 
and safe ; then she took the tiger-skin and the cushions in her 
arms, and, cautioning the boy to hold on to her dress, began 
to mount a little elevation where the trees were thin and the 
grass abundant, as she could tell from the odor of wild-flowers 
that came with the wind. A rock lay embedded in this rich 
forest-grass, and over it a huge, white poplar spread its 
branches like a tent. 

Upon this rock Malaeska enthroned the boy, talking to him 
all the time, as she struck sparks from a flint which she took 
from her basket, and began to kindle a fire from the dry sticks 
which lay around in abundance. When William saw the 
flames rise up high and clear, illuminating the beautiful 
space around, and shooting gleams of gold through the poplar’s 
branches, he grew brave again, and coming down from his 
eminence, began to gather brushwood that the fire might keep 
bright. Then Malaeska took a bottle of water and some 
bread, with fragments of dried beef, from her basket, and the 
boy came smiling from his work. He was no longer de- 
pressed by the dark, and the sight of food made him hungry. 

How proudly the Indian mother broke the food and sur- 
rendered it to his eager appetite. The bright beauty of her 
face was something wonderful to look upon as she watched 
him by the firelight. For the first time, since he was a little 
infant, he really seemed to belong to her. 

When he was satisfied with food, and she saw that his 
eyelids began to droop, Malaeska went to some rocks at a lit- 
tle distance, and tearing up the moss in great green fleeces, 
brought it to the place she had chosen under the poplar-tree, 
and heaped a soft couch for the child. Over this she spread 
the tiger-skin with its red border, and laid the crimson pillows 
whose fringes glittered in the firelight like gems around the 
couch of a prince. 

To this picturesque bed Malaeska took the boy, and seating 
herself by his side, began to sing as she had done years ago 
under the roof of her wigwam. The lad was very weary, and 
fell asleep while her plaintive voice filled the air and was an- 


MORNING IN THE WOODS. 


57 


swered mournfully back by a night-bird deep in the blackness 
of the forest. 

When certain that the lad was asleep, Malaeska lay down 
on the hard rock by his side, softly stealing one arm over him 
and sighing out her troubled joy as she pressed his lips with 
her timid kisses. 

Thus the poor Indian sunk to a broken rest, as she had 
done all her life, piling up soft couches for those she loved, 
and taking the cold stone for herself. It was her woman’s 
destiny, not the more certain because of her savage origin. 
Civilization does not always reverse this mournful picture of 
womanly self-abnegation. 

When the morning came, the boy was aroused by a full 
chorus of singing-birds that fairly made the air vibrate with 
their melody. In and out through the branches rang their 
wild minstrelsy, till the sunshine came laughing through the 
greenness, giving warmth and pleasant light to the music. 
William sat up, rubbing his eyes, and wondering at the strange 
noises. Then he remembered where he was, and called aloud 
for Malaeska. She came from behind a clump of trees, carry- 
ing a partridge in her hand, pierced through the heart with 
her arrow. She flung the bird on the rock at William’s feet, 
and kneeling down before him, kissed his feet, his hands, and 
the folds of his tunic, smoothing his hair and his garments 
with pathetic fondness. 

“ When shall we go home, Malaeska ?” cried the lad, a lit- 
tle anxiously. “ Grandfather will want us.” 

“ This is the home for a young chief,” replied the mother, 
looking around upon the pleasant sky and the forest-turf, 
enameled with wild-flowers, “ What white man has a tent 
like this ?” 

The boy looked up and saw a world of golden tulip-blos- 
soms starring the branches above him, 

“ It lets in the cold and the rain,” he said, shaking the dew 
from his glossy hair. “ I don’t like the woods, Malaeska.” 

“ But you will — oh yes, you will,” answered the mother, 
with anxious cheerfulness ; “ see, I have shot a bird for your 
breakfast.” 

“ A bird ? and I am so hungry.” 

“ And see here, what I have brought from the shore.” 


6S 


MALAESKA. 


She took a little leaf-basket from a recess in the rocks, and 
held it up full of black-raspberries with the clew glittering 
upon them. 

The boy clapped his hands, laughing merrily. 

“ Give me the raspberries — I will eat them all. Grandfather 
isn’t here to stop me, so I will eat and eat till the basket is 
empty. After all, Malaeska, it is pleasant being in the w^oods — 
come, pour the berries on the moss, just here, and get another 
basketful while- I eat these ; but don’t go far — I am afraid 
when you are out of sight. Ko, no, let me build the fire — see 
how I can make the sparks fly.” 

Down he came from the rock, forgetting his berries, and 
eager to distinguish himself among the brushwood, while Ma- 
laeska withdrew a little distance and prepared her game for 
roasting. 

The boy was quick and full of intelligence ; he had a fire 
blazing at once, and shouted back a challenge to the birds as 
its flames rose in the air, sending up wreaths of delicate blue 
smoke into the poplar branches, and curtaining the rocks with 
mist. 

Directly the Indian woman came forward with her game, 
nicely dressed and pierced with a wooden skewer ; to this she 
attached a piece of twine, which, being tied to a branch over- 
head, swung its burden gently to and fro before the fire. 

While this rustic breakfast was in preparation, the boy went 
off in search of flowers or berries — any thing that he could 
find. He came back with a quantity of green wild cherries in 
his tunic, and a bird’s nest, with three speckled eggs in it, 
which he had found under a tuft of fern leaves. A striped 
squirrel, that ran down a chestnut-limb, looked at him with 
such queer earnestness, that he shouted lustily to Malaeska, 
saying that he loved the beautiful woods and all the pretty 
things in it. 

When he came back, Malaeska had thrown off her cloak, 
and crowned herself with a coronal of scarlet and green feath- 
ers, which rendered her savage dress complete, and made her 
an object of wondering admiration to the boy, as she moved 
in and out through the trees, with her fiice all a glow with 
proud love. 

While the partridge was swaying to and fro before the fire, 


THE BOY LIVELY AGAI2T. 


59 


Malaeska gathered a handful of chestnut-leaves and wove 
them together in a sort of mat ; upon this cool nest she laid 
the bird, and carved it with a pretty poniard which William’s 
father had given her in his first wooing ; then she made a leaf- 
cup, and, going to a little spring which she had discovered, 
filled it with crystal water. So, upon the fiowering turf, with 
wild birds serenading them, and the winds floating softly by, 
the mother and boy took their first regular meal in the forest. 
William was delighted ; every thing was fresh and beautiful 
to him. He could scarcely contain his eagerness to be in 
action long enough to eat- the delicate repast which Malaeska 
diversified with smiles and caresses. He wanted to shoot the 
birds that sang so sweetly in the branches, all unconscious that 
the act would inflict pain on the poor little songsters; he 
could not satisfy himself with gazing on the gorgeous raiment 
of his mother — it was something wonderful in his eyes. 

At last the rustic meal was ended, and with his lips red- 
dened b}'" the juicy fruit, he started up, pleading for the bow 
and arrow. 

Proud as a queen and fond as a woman, Malaeska taught 
him how to place the arrow on the bowstring, and when to 
lift it gradually toward his face. He took to it naturally, the 
young rogue, and absolutely danced for joy when his first 
arrow leaped from his bow and went rifling through the pop- 
lar-leaves. How Malaeska loved this practice ! how she tri- 
umphed in each graceful lift of his arm ! how her heart leaped 
to the rich tumult of his shouts ! He wanted to go off alone 
and try his skill among the squirrels, but Malaeska was afraid, 
and followed him step by step happy and watchful. Every 
moment increased his skill ; he would have exhausted the 
sheaf of arrows, but that Malaeska patiently searched for them 
after each shot, and thus secured constant amusement till he 
grew tired even of that rare sport. 

Toward noon, ]\talaeska left him at rest on the tiger-skin, 
and went herself in search of game for the noonday meal ; 
never had she breathed so freely ; never had the woods seem- 
ed so like her home. A sense of profound peace stole over 
her. These groves were her wmrld, and on the rock near by 
lay her other life— all that she had on earth to love. She was 
in no haste to find her tribe. "Vyhat care had she for any 


60 


MALAESKA. 


thing while the boy was with her, and the fprest so pleasant ? 
What did she care for but his happiness ? 

It required but few efforts of her woodcraft to obtain game 
enough for another pleasant meal ; so, with a light step, she re- 
turned to her fairy-like encampment. Tired with his play, 
the boy had fallen asleep on the rock. She saw the graceful 
repose of his limbs, and the sunshine shimmering softly 
through his black hair. Her step grew lighter; she was 
afraid of rustling a leaf, lest the noise might disturb him. 
Thus, softly and almost holding her breath, she drew nearer 
and nearer to the rock. All at once a faint gasping breath be- 
spoke some terrible emotion — she stood motionless, rooted to 
the earth. A low rattle checked her first, and then she 
saw the shimmer of a serpent, coiled upon the very rock 
where her boy was lying. Her approach had aroused the 
reptile, and she could see him preparing to lance out. His 
first fling would be at the sleeping boy. The mother was 
frozen into marble ; she dared not move — she could only stare 
at the snake with a wild glitter of the eye. 

The stillness seemed to appease the creature. The noise 
of his rattle grew fainter, and his eyes sunk like Tvaning fire- 
sparks into the writhing folds that settled on the moss. But 
the child was disturbed by a sunbeam that slanted through 
the leaves overhead, and turned upon the tiger-skin. Instantly 
the rattle sounded sharp and clear, and out from the writhing 
folds shot the venomous head with its vicious eyes fixed on 
the boy. Malaeska had, even in her frozen state, some 
thought of saving her boy. With her cold hands she had 
fitted the arrow and lifted the bow, but as the serpent grew 
passive, the weapon dropped again ; for he lay on the other 
side of the child, and to kill him she W'as obliged to shoot 
over that sleeping form. But the reptile crested himself again, 
and now with a quiver of horrible dread at her heart, but 
nerves strained like steel, she drew the bowstring, and, aiming 
at the head, which glittered like a jewel, just beyond her 
child, let the arrow fly. She went blind on the instant — the 
darkness of death fell upon her brain ; the coldness of death 
lay upon her heart ; she listened for some cry — nothing but a 
sharp rustling of leaves and then profound stillness met her 
strained senses. 


THE RATTLESNAKE. 


fil 


The time in which Malaeska was . struck with darkness 
seemed an eternity to her, but it lasted only an instant, in 
fact ; then her eyes opened wide in the agonized search, and 
terrible thrills shot through her frame. A laugh rang up 
through the trees, and then she saw her boy setting up on the 
tiger-skin, his cheeks all rosy with sleep and dimpled with 
surprise, gazing down upon the headless rattlesnake that had 
uncoiled convulsively in its death-spasms, and lay quivering 
across his feet. 

“ Ha ! ha I” he shouted, clapping his hands, “ this is a 
famous fellow — prettier than the birds, prettier than the squir- 
rels. Malaeska ! Malaeska ! see what this checkered thing is, 
with no head, and rings on its tail.” 

Malaeska was so weak she could hardly stand, but, trem- 
bling in every limb, she staggered toward the rock, and seizing 
upon the still quivering snake, hurled it with a shuddering 
cry into the undergrowth. 

Then she fell upon her knees, and clasped the boy close, 
close to her bosom till he struggled and cried out that she 
was hurting him. But she could not let him go ; it seemed 
as if the serpent would coil around him the moment her arms 
were loosened ; she clung to his garments — she kissed his 
hands, his hair, and his flushed forehead with passionate 
energy. 

He could not understand all this. Why did Malaeska 
breathe so hard, and shake so much ? He wished she had 
not flung away the pretty creature which had crept to his 
bed while he slept, and looked so beautiful. But when she 
told how dangerous the reptile was, he began to be afraid, 
and questioned her with vague terror about the way she had 
killed him. 

Some yards from the rock, Malaeska found her arrow on 
W’hich the serpent’s head was impaled, and she carried it with 
trembling exultation to the boy, who shrunk away with new- 
born dread, and began to know what fear was. 


C2 


MA.LAESKA. 


CHAPTER VI. 

“Mid forests and meadow lands, though we may roam, 

Be it ever so humble, there is no place like home ; 

Home, home, sweet, sweet, home, 

There’s no place like home ; 

There’s no place like home.” 

This event troubled Malaeska, and gathering up her little 
property, she unmoored the boat, and made progress up the 
river. The child was delighted with the change, and soon lost 
all unpleasant remembrance of the rattlesnake. But Malaeska 
was very careful in the selection of her encampment that after- 
noon, and kindled a bright fire before she spread the tiger-skin 
for William’s bed, which she trusted would keep all venomous 
things away. They eat their supper under a huge white pine, 
that absorbed the firelight in its dusky branches, and made 
every thing gloomy around. As the darkness closed over 
them William grew silent, and by the heaviness of his features 
Malaeska saw that he was oppressed by thoughts of home. 
She had resolved not to tell him of the relationship which w^as 
constantly in her thoughts, till they should stand at the coun- 
cil-fires of the tribe, when the Indians should know him as 
their chief, and he recognize a mother in poor Malaeska. 

Troubled by his sad look, the Indian woman sought for 
something in her stores that should cheer him. She found 
some seed-cakes, golden and sweet, which only brought tears 
into the child’s eyes, for they reminded him of home and all 
its comforts. 

“ Malaeska,” he said, “ when shall we go back to grandfather 
and grandmother ? I know they want to see us.” 

“ No, no ; we must not think about that,” said Malaeska, 
anxiously. 

“ But I can’t help it — how can I ?” persisted the boy, mourn- 
fully. 

“ Don’t — don’t say you love them — I mean your grandfather 
— more than you love Malaeska. She would die for you.” 


TIRED OP THE WOODS. 


63 ' 

“ Yes ; but I don’t want you to die, only to go back home,” 
he pleaded. 

“We are going home — to our beautiful home in the woods, 
which I told you of.” 

“ Dear me, I’m so tired of the woods.” 

“ Tired of the woods ?” 

“ Yes, I aw tired. They are nice to play in, but it isn’t home, 
no way. How far is it, Malaeska, to where grandfather lives ?” 

“I don’t know — I don’t want to know. We shall never — 
never go there again,” said the Indian, passionately. “ You 
are mine, all mine.” 

The boy struggled in her embrace restively. 

“ But I won’t stay in the woods. I want to be in a real 
house, and sleep in a soft bed, and — and — there, now, it is going 
to rain ; I hear it thunder. Oh, how I want to go home !” 

There was in truth a storm mustering over them ; the wind 
rose and moaned hoarsely through the pines. Malaeska was 
greatly distressed, and gathered the tired boy lovingly to her 
bosom for shelter. 

“ Have patience, William ; nothing shall hurt you. To- 
morrow we will row the boat all day. You shall pull the 
oars yourself.” 

“ Shall I, though ?” said the boy, brightening a little ; “ but 
will it be on the way home ?” 

“We shall go across the mountains where the Indians live. 
The brave warriors who will make William their king.” 

“ But I don’t want to be a king, Malaeska !” 

“ A chief— a great chief— who shall go to the war-path and 
fight battles.” 

“ Ah, I should like that, with your pretty bow and arrow, 
Malaeska ; wouldn’t I shoot the wicked red-skins ?” 

“ Ah, my boy, don’t say that.” 

“Oh,” said the child, shivering, “the wind is cold; how it 
sobs m the pine boughs. Don’t you wish we were at home 
now ?” 

“ Don’t be afraid of the cold,” said Malaeska, in a troubled 
voice ; “ see, I will wrap this cloak about you, and no rain can 
come through the fur blanket. We are brave, you and I — 
what do we care for a little thunder and rain-^it makes me feel 
brave.” 


64 


MALAESKA. 


“ But you don’t care for home ; you love the woods and the 
rain. The thunder and lightning makes your eyes bright, but 
I don’t like it ; so take me home, please, and then you may go 
to the woods ; I won’t tell.” 

“Oil, don’t— don’t. It breaks my heart,” cried the poor 
mother. “ Listen, William : the Indians — my people — the 
brave Indians want you for a chief. In a few years you shall 
lead them to war.” 

“ But I hate the Indians.” 

“No, no.” 

“ They are fierce and cruel.” 

“ Not to you — not to you !” 

“ I won’t live with the Indians !” 

“ They are a brave people — you shall be their chief.” 

“ They killed my father.” 

“ But I am of those people. I saved you and brought you 
among the white people.” 

“ Yes, I know ; grandmother told me that.” 

“ And I belonged to the woods.” 

“ Among the Indians ?” 

“Yes. Your father loved these Indians, William.” 

“ Did he — but they killed him.” 

“ But it was in battle.” 

“ In fair battle ; did you say that 

“ Yes, child. Your father was fidendly with them, but they 
thought he had turned enemy. A great chief met him in the 
midst of the fight, and they killed each other. They fell and 
died together.” 

“ Did you know this great cliigf, Malaeska.” 

“ He was my father,” answered the Indian woman, hoarsely ; 
“ my own father.” 

“ Your father and mine ; how strange that they should hate 
each other,” said the boy, thoughtfully. 

“ Not always,” answered Malaeska, struggling against the 
tears that choked her words ; “ at one time they loved each 
other.” 

“Loved each other; that is strange; and did my father 
love you, Malaeska ?” 

White as death the poor woman turned; a hand was 
clenched under her deer-skin robe, and pressed hard against 


THE rUKSUIT. 


65 


her heart; hut she had promised to reveal nothing, and 
bravely kept her word. 

The boy forgot his reckless question the moment it was 
asked, and did not heed her pale silence, for the storm was 
gathering darkly over them. Malaeska wrapped him in her 
cloak, and sheltered him with her person. The rain began to 
patter heavily overhead; but the pine-tree was thick with 
foliage, and no drops, as yet, could penetrate to the earth. 

“ See, my boy, we are safe from the rain ; nothing can reach 
us here,” she said, cheering his despondency. “ I will heap 
piles of dry wood on the fire, and shelter you all night long.” 

She paused a moment, for flashes of blue lightning began to 
play fiercely through the thick foliage overhead, revealing 
depths of darkness that was enough to terrify a brave man. 
No wonder the boy shrank and trembled as it flashed and 
quivered over him. 

Malaeska saw how frightened he was, and piled dry wood 
recklessly on the fire, hoping that its steady blaze would reas- 
sure him. 

They were encamped on a spur of the Highlands that shot 
in a precipice over the stream, and the light of Malaeska’s fire 
gleamed far and wide, casting a golden track far down the 
Hudson. 

Four men, who were urging a boat bravely against the 
storm, saw the light, and shouted eagerly to each other. 

“ Here she is ; nothing but an Indian would keep up a fire 
like that. Pull steadily, and we have them.” 

They did pull steadily, and defying the storm, the boat 
made harbor under the cliff where Malaeska’s fire still burned. 
Four men stole away from the boat, and crept stealthily up 
the hill, guided by the lightning and the gleaming fire above. 
The rain, beating among the branches, drowned their footsteps ; 
and they spoke only in hoarse wdiispers, which were lost on 
the wind. 

William had dropped asleep wdth tears on his thick eye- 
lashes, which the strong firelight revealed to Malaeska, who 
regarded him with mournful affection. The cold wind chilled 
her through and through, but she did not feel it. So long as 
the boy slept comfortably she had no want. 

I have said that the storm ninflled all other sounds ; and 


GG 


MALAESKA. 


tlie four men who had left their boat at the foot of the cliff 
stood close by Malaeska before she had the least idea of their 
approach. Then a blacker shadow than fell from the pine, 
darkened the space around her, and looking suddenly up, she 
saw the stern face of old Mr. Danforth between her and the 
firelight. 

Malaeska did not speak or cry aloud, but snatching the 
sleeping boy close to her heart, hfted her pale face to his, half- 
defia t, half-terrified. 

“ Take my grandson from the woman and bring him down 
to the boat,” said the old man, addressing those that came 
with him. 

“ Ko, no, he is mine !” cried Malaeska, fiercely. “ Nothing 
but the Great Spirit shall take him from me again !” 

The sharp anguish in her voice awoke the boy. He strug- 
gled in her arms, and looking around, saw the old man. 

“ Grandfather, oh ! grandfather, take me home. I do want 
to go home,” he cried, stretching out his arms. 

“ Oh !” I have not a power of words to express the bitter 
anguish of that single exclamation, when it broke from the 
mother’s pale lips. It was the cry of a heart that snapped its 
strongest fiber there and then. The boy wished to leave her. 
She had no strength after that, but allowed them to force him 
from her arms without a struggle. The rattlesnake had not 
paralyzed her so completely. 

So they took the boy ruthlessly from her embrace, and 
carried him away. She followed after without a word of pro- 
test, and saw them lift him into the boat and push off, leaving 
her to the pitiless night. It was a cruel thing — bitterly cruel 
—but the poor woman was stupefied with the blow’, and 
watched the boat with heavy eyes. All at once she heard the 
boy calling after her: 

“ Malaeska, come too. Malaeska — Malaeska !” 

She heard the cry, and her icy heart swelled passionately. 
With the leap of a panther she sprang to her own boat, and 
dashed after her tonnenters, pulling fiercely through the storm. 
But with all her desperate energy, she was not able to over- 
take those four powerful men. They were out of sight directly, 
and she drifted after them alone — all alone. 

Malaeska never went back to Mr. Danforth’s house again, 


THE DEPARTURE. 


67 


but she built a lodge on the Weehawken shore, and supported 
herself by selling painted baskets and such embroideries as the 
Indians excel in. It was a lonely life, but sometimes she met 
her son in the streets of Manhattan, or sailing on the river, and 
this poor happiness kept her alive. 

After a few months, the lad came to her lodge. His grand- 
mother consented to the visit, for, she still had compassion on 
the lone Indian, and w'ould not let the youth go beyond 
sea' without bidding her farewell. In all the bitter anguish of 
that parting Malaeska kept her faith, and smothering the great 
want of her soul, saw her son depart without putting forth the 
holy claim of her motherhood. One day Malaeska stood upon 
the shore and saw a white-sailed ship veer from her moorings 
and pass away with cruel swiftness toward the oceau, the 
broad, boundless ocean, that seemed to her like eternity. 


MALAESEA. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Alone in the forest, alone, 

When the night is dark and late — 

Alone on the waters, alone. 

She drifts to her woman’s fate. 

Again Malaeska took to her boat and, all alone, began her 
mournful journey to the forest. After the fight at Catskill, 
her brethren had retreated into the interior. The great tribe, 
which gave its name to the richest intervale in New York 
State, v;as always munificent in its hospitality to less fortunate 
brethren, to whom its hunting-grounds were ever open. 
Malaeska knew that her people were mustered somewhere 
near the amber-colored falls of Genesee, and she began her 
mournful voyage with vague longings to see them again, now 
that she had nothing but memories to live upon. 

With a blanket in the bow of her boat, a few loaves of 
bread, and some meal in a coarse linen bag, she started up 
tlie river. The boat was battered and beginning to look old 
— half the gorgeous paint was worn from its sides, and the 
interior had been often washed by the tempests that beat over 
the little cove near her lodge where she had kept it moored. 
Slie made no attempt to remedy its desolate look. The tiger- 
skin was left behind in her lodge. No crimson cushions ren- 
dered the single seat tempting to sit upon. These fanciful 
comforts were intended for the boy — motherly love alone pro- 
vided them ; but now she had no care for things of this kind. 
A poor lone Indian woman, trampled on by the whites, 
deserted by her own child, was going back to her kinsfolk 
for shelter. Why should she attempt to appear less desolate 
than she was? 

Thus, dreary and abandoned, Malaeska sat in her boat, 
heavily urging it up the stream. She had few wants, but 
pulled at the oars all day long, keeping time to the slow 
juovement with her voice, from which a low funereal chant 
sw cl 1 ed con tin n.al ly. 


MALAESKA RETrFvNS TO ITER TKTBE. 


69 


Sometimes she went ashore, and nuildiiig a fire in the lone- 
liness, cooked the fish she had speared or tlie bird her arrow 
had brought down ; but these meals always reminded her of 
the few happy days spent, after the sylvan fashion, with her 
boy, and she would sit moaning over the untasted food till the 
very birds tliat hovered near would pause in their singing to 
look askance at her. So she relaxed in her monotonous toil 
but seldom, and generally slept in her little craft, with the 
current rippling around her, and wrapped only in a coarse, 
gray blanket. 

No one cared about her movements, and no one attempted 
to bring her back, or she might have been traced at intervals 
by some rock close to the shore, blackened with embers, 
where she had baked her corn-bread, or by the feathers of a 
bird ■which she had dressed, without caring to eat it. 

Day after day — day after day, Malaeska kept on her watery 
path till she came to the mouth of the Mohawk. There she 
rested a little, with a weary, heavy-hearted dread of pursuing 
her journey further. What if her people should reject her as 
a renegade ? She had deserted them in their hour of deep 
trouble — fled fl’om the grave of her father, their chief, and had 
carried his grandson away to his bitterest enemy, the white 
man. 

Would the people of her tribe forgive this treason, and take 
her back ? She scarcely cared ; life had become so dreary, 
the whole world so dark, that the poor soul rather courted 
pain, and would have smiled to know that death was near. 
Some vague ideas of religion, that the gentle grandmother of 
her son had taken pains to instil into that wild nature, kept 
her from self-destruction ; but she counted the probabilities 
that the tribe might put her to death, with vague hope. 

Weary days, and more weary nights, she spent upon the 
Mohawk, creeping along the shadows and seeking the gloom- 
iest spots for her repose ; under the wild grape-vines that 
bent down the young elms with their purple fruit — under the 
golden willows and dusky pines she sought rest, never caring 
for danger; for, what had she to care how death or pain 
presented itself, so long as she had no fear of either ? 

At last she drew up her boat under a shelving precipice, 
and making it safe, took to the wilderness with nothing but a 


70 


MALAESKA. 


little corn meal, her blanket, and bow. With the same heavy 
listlessness that had marked her entire progress, she threaded 
the forest-paths, knowing by the hacked trees that her tribe 
had passed that way. But her path was rough, and the en- 
campment far off, and she had many a heavy mile to walk 
before it could be reached. Her moccasins were worn to 
tatters, and her dress, once so gorgeous, all rent and weather- 
stained when she came in sight of the little prairie, hedged in 
by lordly forest-trees, in which her broken tribe had built 
their lodges. 

Malaeska threw away her scant burden of food, and took a 
prouder bearing when she came in sight of those familiar 
lodges. In all her sorrow, she could not forget that she was 
the daughter of a great chief and a princess among the people 
whom she sought. 

Thus, with an imperial tread, and eyes bright as the stars, 
she entered the encampment and sought the lodge which, by 
familiar signs, she knew to* be that of the chief who had super- 
seded her sou. 

It was near sunset, and many of the Indian women had 
gathered in front of this lodge, waiting for their lords to come 
forth ; for there was a council within the lodge, and like the 
rest of their sex, the dusky sisterhood liked to be in the way 
of intelligence. Malaeska had changed greatly during the 
years that she had been absent among the whites. If the 
lightness and grace of youth were gone, a more imposing dig- 
nity came in their place. Habits of refinement had kept her 
complexion clear and her hair bright. She had left them a 
slender, spirited young creature ; she returned a serious woman, 
modest, but queenly withal. 

The women regarded her first with surprise and then with 
kindling anger, for, after pausing to look at them without find- 
ing a familiar face, she walked on toward the lodge, and lift- 
ing the mat, stood within the opening in full view both of 
the waiTiors assembled there and the wrathful glances of the 
females on the outside. 

When the Indians saw the entrance to their council dark- 
ened by a woman, dead silence fell upon them, followed by a 
fierce murmur that would have made a person who feared 
death tremble. Malaeska stood undismayed, surveying the 


MALAESKA CONDEMNED TO DIE. 


71 


savage group with a calm, regretful look ; for, among the old 
men, she saw some that had been upon the war-path with her 
father. Turning to one of these warriors, she said : 

“ It is Malaeska, daughter of the Black Eagle.” 

A murmur of angry surprise ran through the lodge, and the 
■women crowded together, menacing her with their glances. 

“When my husband, the young white chief, died,” continued 
Malaeska, “ he told me to go down the great water and carry 
my son to his own people. The Indian wife obeys her chief.” 

A w'arrior, whom Malaeska knew as the friend of her father, 
arose with austere gravity, and spoke ; 

“ It is many years since Malaeska took the young chief to 
his white fathers. The hemlock that was green has died at 
the top since then. Why does Malaeska come back to her 
people alone ? Is the boy dead ?” 

Malaeska turned pale in the twilight, and her voice faltered. 

“ The boy is not dead — yet Malaeska is alone !” she answered 
plaintively. 

“ Has the woman made a white chief of the boy ? Has he 
become the enemy of our people ?” said another of the In- 
dians, looking steadily at Malaeska. 

Malaeska knew the voice and the look ; it was that of a 
brave who, in his youth, had besought her to share his wig- 
wam. A gleam of proud reproach came over her features, 
but she bent her bead without answering. 

Then the old chief spoke again. “ Why does Malaeska 
come back to her tribe like a bird with its wings broken ? 
Has the white chief driven her from his wigwam ?” 

Malaeska’s voice broke out ; the gentle pride of her charac 
ter rose as the truth of her position presented itself 

“ Malaeska obeyed the young chief, her husband, but her 
heart turned back to her own people. She tried to bring the 
boy into the forest again, but they followed her up the great 
river and took him away ; Malaeska stands here alone.” 

Again the Indian spoke. “ The daughter of the Black 
Eagle forsook her tribe when the death-song of her father was 
loud in the woods. She comes back when the corn is ripe , 
but there is no wigwam open to her. When a woman of the 
tribe goes off to the enemy, she returns only to die. Have I 
said -well ?” 


72 


MALAEBKA. 


A guttural murmur of assent ran through the lodge. The 
women heard it from their place in the open air, and gather- 
ing fiercely around the door, cried out, “ Give her to us ! She 
has stolen our chief— she has disgraced her tribe. It is long 
since we have danced at the fire-festival.” 

The rabble of angry women came on with their taunts and 
menaces, attempting to seize Malaeska, who stood pale and 
still before them ; but the chief, whom she had once rejected, 
stood up, and with a motion of his hands repulsed them. 

“ Let the women go back to their wigwams. The daugh- 
ter of a great chief dies only by the hands of a chief. To the 
warrior of her tribe, whom she has wronged, her life belongs.” 

Malaeska lifted her sorrowful eyes to his face — how changed 
it was since the day he had asked her to share his lodge. 

“ And it is you that want my life ?” she said. 

“ By the laws of the tribe it is mine,” he answered. “ Turn 
your face to the east — it is growing dark ; the forest is deep ; 
no one shall hear Malaeska’s cries when the hatchet cleaves 
her forehead. Come !” 

Malaeska turned in pale terror, and followed him. No one 
interfered with the chief, whom she had refused for a white man. 
Her life belonged to him. He had a right to choose the time 
and place of her execution. But the women expressed their 
disappointment in fiendish sneers, as she glided like a ghost 
through their ranks and disappeared in the blackness of the 
forest. 

Not a word was spoken between her and the chief. Stern 
and silent he struck into a trail which she knew led to the 
river, for she had traveled over it the day before. Thus, in 
darkness and profound silence, she walked on all night till 
her limbs were so weary that she longed to call out and pray 
the chief to kill her then and there ; but he kept on a little in 
advance, only turning now and then to be sure that she fol- 
lowed. 

Once she ventured to asked him why he put off her death 
BO long; but he pointed along the trail, and walked along 
without deigning a repl}’-. During the day he took a handful 
of parched corn from his pouch and told her to eat; but for 
himself, through that long night and day, he never tasted a 
morsel. 


FREE ONCE MORE. 


73 


Toward sunset they came out on the banks of the Mohawk, 
near the very spot where she had left her boat. The Indian 
paused here and looked steadily at his victim. 

The blood grew cold in Malaeska’s veins — death was terri- 
ble when it came so near. She cast one look of pathetic 
pleading on his face, then, folding her hands, stood before him 
waiting for the moment. 

“ Malaeska !” 

His voice was softened, his lips quivered as the name once 
so sweet to his heart passed through them. 

“ Malaeska, the river is broad and deep. The keel of your 
boat leaves no track. Go ! the Great Spirit will light you with 
his stars. Here is corn and dried venison. Go in peace !” 

She looked at him with her wild tender eyes ; her lips be- 
gan to tremble, her heart swelled with gentle sweetness, which 
was the grace of her civilization. She took the red hand of 
the savage and kissed it reverently. 

“ Farewell,” she said ; “ Malaeska has no words ; her heart 
is full.” 

The savage began to tremble ; a glow of the old passion 
came over him. 

“ Malaeska, my wigwam is empty ; will you go back ? It 
is my right to save or kill.” 

Malaeska pointed upward to the sky. 

'■'•He is yonder, in the great hunting-ground, waiting for 
Malaeska to come. Could she go blushing from another chief’s 
wigwam ?” 

For one instant those savage features were convulsed ; then 
they settled down into the cold gravity of his former expres- 
sion, and he pointed to the boat. 

She went down to the edge of the water, while he took the 
blanket from his shoulders and placed it into the boat. Then 
he pushed the little craft from its mooring, and motioned her 
to jump in ; he forbore to touch her hand, or even look on 
her face, but saw her take up the oars and leave the shore 
without a word ; but when she was out of sight, his head fell 
forward on his bosom, and he gradually sank to an attitude of 
profound grief. 

While he sat upon a fragment of rock, with a rich sunset 
crimsoning the water at his feet, a canoe came down the river. 


74 


J4ALAESKA. 


urged by a white mau, the only one who ever visited his tribe. 
This man was a missionary among the Indians, who held him 
in reverence as a great medicine chief, whose power of good 
was something to marvel at. 

The chief beckoned to the missionary, who seemed in haste, 
but he drew near the shore. In a few brief but eloquent 
words the warrior spoke of Malaeska, of the terrible fate from 
which she had just been rescued, and of the forlorn life to which 
she must henceforth be consigned. There was something 
grand in this compassion that touched a thousand generous 
impulses in the missionary’s heart. He was on his course 
down the river — for his duties lay with the Indians of many 
tribes — so he promised to overtake the lonely woman, to com- 
fort and protect her from harm till she reached some settle- 
ment. 

The good man kept his word. An hour after his canoe 
was attached to Malaeska’s little craft by its slender cable, and 
he was conversing kindly with her of those things that inter- 
ested his pure nature most. 

Malaeska listened with meek and grateful attention. Ho 
flower ever opened to the sunshine more sweetly than her soul 
received the holy revelations of that good man. He had no 
time or place for teaching, but seized aii}^ opportunity that 
arose where a duty could be performed. His mission lay 
always where human souls required knowledge. So he never 
left the lonely woman till long after they had passed the 
mouth of the Mohawk, and were floating on the Hudson. 
When they came in sight of the Catskill range, Malaeska was 
seized with an irresistible longing to see the graves of her hus- 
band and father. What other place in the wide, wide world 
had she to look for ? Where could she go, driven forth as she 
was by her own people, and by the father of her husband ? 

Surely among the inhabitants of the village she could sell 
such trifles as her inventive talent could create, and if any of 
the old lodges stood near “ the Straka,” that would be shelter 
enough. 

With these thoughts in her mind, Malaeska took leave of 
the missionary with many a whispered blessing, and took her 
way to “ the Straka.” There she found an old lodge, through 
whose crevices the winds had whistled for years ; but she went 


A HOME ON THE STRAKA.” 


75 


diligently to work, gathering moss and turf with which this 
old home, connected with so many sweet and bitter associations, 
was rendered habitable again. Then she took possession, and 
proceeded to invent many objects of comfort and even taste, 
with which to beautify the spot she had consecrated witla 
memories of her passionate youth, and its early, only love. 

The woods were full of game, and wild fruits were abund- 
ant ; .so that it was a long, long time before Malaeska’s resi- 
dence in the neighborhood was known. She shrank from 
approaching a people who had treated her so cruelly, and so 
kept in utter loneliness so long as solitude was possible. 

In all her life Malaeska retained but one vague hope, and 
that was for the return of her son from that far-off country to 
which the cruel whites had sent him. She had questioned 
the missionary earnestly about these lands, and had now a 
settled idea of their extent and distance across the ocean. 
The great waters no longer seemed like eternity to her, or ab- 
sence so much like death. Some time she might see her child 
again ; till then she would wait and pray to the white man’s 
God. ' 


76 


MALAESKA. 


CHAPTER yill. 

Huzza, for the forests and hills ! 

Huzza, for the berries so blue ! 

Our baskets we’ll cheerily fill, 

While the thickets are sparkling with dew. 

Years before the scene of our story returns to Catskill, 
Arthur Jones and the pretty Martha Fellows had married and 
settled down in life. The kind-hearted old man died soon 
after the union, and left the pair inheritors of his little shop 
and of a respectable landed property. Arthur made an indul- 
gent, good husband, and Martha soon became too much con- 
fined by the cares of a rising family, for any practice of the 
teasing coquetry which had characterized her girlhood. She 
seconded her husband in all his money-making projects ; was 
an economical and thrifty housekeeper ; never allowed her 
children to go barefooted, except in the very warmest weather ; 
and, to use her own words, made a point of holding her head 
as high as any woman in the settlement. 

If an uninterrupted course of prosperity could entitle a per- 
son to this privilege, Mrs. Jones certainly made no false claim 
to it. Every year added something to her husband’s posses- 
sions. Several hundred acres of cleared land were purchased 
beside that which he inherited from his father-in-law; the 
humble shop gradually increased to a respectable variety-store, 
and a handsome frame-house occupied the site of the old log- 
cabin. 

Besides all this, Mr. Jones was a justice of the peace and a 
dignitary in the village ; and his wife, though a great deal 
stouter than when a girl, and the mother of six children, had 
lost none of her healthy good looks, and at the age of thirty- 
eight continued to be a very handsome woman indeed. 

Thus was the family situated at the period when our story 
returns to them. One warm afternoon, in the depth of summer, 
Mrs. Jones was sitting in the porch of her dwelling occupied 


SARAH JONES’ DISCOVERY. 


77 


in mending a garment of home-made linen, which, from its 
size, evident!}" belonged to some one of her }rounger children. 
A cheese-press, with a rich heavy mass of curd compressed 
between the screws, occupied one side of the porch ; and 
against it stood a small double flax-wheel, unhanded, and with 
a day’s work yet unreeled from the spools. A hatchel and a 
pair of hand-cards, with a bunch of spools tied together by a 
tow string, lay in a corner, and high above, on rude wooden 
pegs, hung several enormous bunches of tow and linen yarn, 
the products of many weeks’ hard labor. 

Her children had gone into the woods after whortleberries, 
and the mother now and then laid down her work and stepped 
out to the green-sward beyond the porch to watch their com- 
ing, not anxiously, but as one who feels restless and lost with- 
out her usual companions. After standing on the grass for 
awhile, shading her eyes with her hand and looking toward 
the woods, she at last returned to the porch, laid down her 
work, and entering the kitchen, filled the tea-kettle and began 
to make preparations for supper. She had drawn a long pine- 
table to the middle of the floor, and was proceeding to spread 
it, when her eldest daughter came through the porch, with a 
basket of whortleberries on her arm. Her pretty face was 
flushed with walking, and a profusion of fair tresses flowed in 
some disorder from her pink sun-bonnet, which was falling 
partly back from her head. 

“ Oh, mother, I have something so strange to tell you,” she 
said, setting down the basket with its load of ripe, blue fruit, 
and fanning herself with a bunch of chestnut-leaves gathered 
from the woods. “You know the old wigwam by ‘the 
Straka ?’ Well, when wo went by it, the brush, which used 
to choke up the door, was all cleared off; the crevices were 
filled with green moss and leaves, and a cloud of smoke was 
curling beautifully up from the roof among the trees. We 
could not tell what to make of it, and were afraid to look in 
at first ; but finally I peeped through an opening in the logs, 
and as true as you are here, mother, there sat an Indian 
woman reading— reading, mother ! did you know that Indians 
could read ? The inside of the wigwam was hung with straw 
matting, and there was a chest in it, and some stools, and a 
little shelf of books, and another with some earthern dishes 


78 


MALAESKA. 


and a china cup and saucer, sprigged with gold, standing upon 
it. I did not see any bed, but there was a pile of fresh, sweet 
fern in one corner, with a pair of clean sheets spread on it, 
which I suppose she sleeps on, and there certainly was a 
feather pillow lying at the top. 

“Well, the Indian woman looked kind and harmless ; so I 
made an excuse to go in, and ask for a cup to drink out of. 

“ As I went round to the other side of the wigwam, I saw 
that the smoke came up from a fire on the outside ; a kettle 
was hanging in the flame, and several other pots and kettles 
stood on a little bench by the trunk of an oak-tree, close by. 
I must have made some noise, for the Indian woman -was 
looking toward the door when I opened it, as if she were a 
little afraid, but when she saw who it was, I never saw any 
one smile so pleasantly ; she gave me the china cup, and 
went with me out to the spring where the boys were play- 
ing. 

“ As I was drinking, my sleeve fell back, and she saw the 
little wampum bracelet which you gave me, you know, mother. 
She started and took hold of my arm, and stared in my face, 
as if she would have looked me through ; at last she sat down 
on the grass by the spring, and asked me to sit down by her 
and tell her my name. When I told her, she seemed ready 
to cr}’- with joy ; tears came into her eyes, and she kissed my 
hand two or three times, as if I had been the best friend she 
ever had on earth. 

“ I told her that a poor Indian girl had given the bracelet 
to you, before you were married to my father. She asked a 
great many questions about it, and you. 

“ When I began to describe the Indian fight, and the chief’s 
grave down by the lake, she sat perfectly still till I had done ; 
then I looked in her face : great tears were rolling one by 
one down her cheeks, her hands were locked in her lap, and 
her eyes were fixed upon my face with a strange stare, as if 
she did not know what she was gazing so hard at. She look- 
ed in my face, in this way, more than a minute after I had 
done speaking. 

“ The boys stopped their play, for they had begun to dam 
up the spring, and stood wdth their hands full of turf, huddled 
together, and staring at the poor woman as if they had never 


Tim: BOISTEROUS INTBUDERS. 


79 


seen a person cry before. She did not seem to mind them, 
but went into the wigwam again without speaking a word.” 

“ And was that the last you saw of her ?” inquired Mrs, 
Jones, who had become interested in her daughter’s narration. 

“ Oh, no ; she came out again just as we were going away 
from the spring. Her voice was more sweet and mournful 
than it had been, and her eyes looked heavy and troubled. 
She thanked me for the story I had told her, and gave me 
this pair of beautiful moccasins.” 

“ Mrs. Jones took the moccasins from her daughter’s hand. 
They were of neatly dressed deer-skin, covered witli beads and 
delicate needlework in silk. 

“ It is strange !” muttered Mrs. Jones ; “ one might almost 
think it possible. But nonsense ; did not the old merchant 
send us w'ord, that the poor creature and her child were lost 
in the Highlands — that they died of hunger? Well, Sarah,” 
she added, turning to her daughter, “ is this all ? What did 
the woman say when she gave you the moccasins ? I don’t 
wonder that you are pleased with them.” 

“ She only told me to come again, and — ” 

Here Sarah was interrupted by a troop of noisy boys, who 
came in a body through the porch, flourishing their straw hats 
and swinging their whortleberry baskets, heavy with fruit, 
back and forth at each step. 

“ Hurra ! hurra ! Sarah’s fallen in love with an old squaw. 
How do you do, Miss Jones? Oh, mother, I wish you could a-seen 
her hugging and kissing the copper-skin — it was beautiful !” 

Here Uie boisterous rogues set up a laugh that rang through 
the house, like the breaking up of a military muster. 

“ Mother, do make them be still ; they have done nothing 
but tease and make fun of me all the way home,” said the an- 
noyed girl, half crying. 

“ How did the old squaw’s lips taste, hey ?” persisted the 
eldest boy, pulling his sister’s sleeve, and looking with eyes 
full of saucy mischief up into her face. “ Sweet as maple- 
sugar, wasn’t it ? Come, tell.” 

“ Arthur — Arthur ! you had better be quiet, if you know 
when you’re well off!” exclaimed the mother, with a slight 
motion of the hand, which had a great deal of significant 
meaning to the mischievous group. 


80 


MALAESKA. 


“ Oil, don’t— please, don’t !” exclaimed the spoiled urchin, 
clapping his -hands to his ears and running off to a corner, 
where he stood laughing in his mother s face. “ I say, Sarah, 
was it sweet ?” 

“ Arthur, don’t let me speak to you again, I say,” cried Mrs. 
Jones, making a step forwa^'d and doing her utmost to get up 
a frown, while her hand gave additional demonstration of its 
hostile intent. 

“Well, then, make her tell me; you ought to cuff her ears 
for not answering a civil question — hadn’t she, boys ?” 

There was something altogether too ludicrous in this impu- 
dent appeal, and in the look of demure mischief put on by the 
culprit. Mrs. Jones bit her lips and turned away, leaving the 
boy, as usual, victor of the field. “ He isn’t worth minding, 
Sarah,” she said, evidently ashamed of her want of resolution ; 
“ come into the ‘ out-room,’ I’ve something to tell you.” 

When the mother and daughter were alone, Mrs. Jones sat 
down and drew the young girl into her lap. 

“Well, Sarah,” she said, smoothing down the ricli hair that 
lay against her bosom, “ your father and I have been talking 
about you to-day. You are almost sixteen, and can spin your 
day’s work Avitli any girl in the settlement. Your father says 
that after you have learned to weave and make cheese, he will 
send you down to Manhattan to school.” 

“ Oh, mother, did he say so ? in real, real earnest ?” ci‘ied 
the delighted girl flinging her arms round her mother’s neck 
and kissing her yet handsome mouth with joy at the informa- 
tion it had just conveyed. “When will he let me go^ I can 
learn to weave and make cheese in a week.” 

“ If you learn all that he thinks best for you to know in two 
years, it will be as much as we expect. Eighteen is quite 
young enough. If you are very smart at home, you shall go 
when you are eighteen.” 

“ Two years is a long, long time,” said the girl, in a tone of 
disappointment ; “ but then father is kind to let me go at all. 
I will run down to the store and thank him. But, mother,” 
she added, turning back from the door, “ was there really any 
harm in talking with the Indian woman ? There was nothing 
about her that did not seem like the whites but her skin, and 
that was not so very dark.” 


A GENTLE INDLA.N. 


81 


“ Harm r No, child ; how silly you are to let the boys tease 
you so.” 

“ I will go and see her again, then — may I ?” 

“ Certainly — but see ; your father is coming to supper ; run 
out and cut the bread. You must be very smart, now ; re- 
member the school.” 

During the time which intervened between Sarah Jones’ 
sixteenth and eighteenth year, she was almost a daily visitor 
at the wigwam. The little footpath which led from the village 
to “the Straka,” though scarcely definable to others, became 
as familiar to her as the grounds about her fathei-’s house. If 
a day or two passed in which illness or some other cause pre- 
vented her usual visit, she was sure to receive some token of 
remembrance from the lone Indian woman. Now, it reached 
her in the form of a basket of ripe fruit, or a bunch of wild 
flowers, tied together with the taste of an artist ; again, it was 
a cluster of grapes, with the purple bloom lying fresh upon 
them, or a young mocking-bird, with notes as sweet as the 
voice of a fountain, would reach her by the hands of some 
village boy. 

These afiectionate gifts could always be traced to the inhab- 
itant of the wigwam, even though she did not, as was some- 
times the case, present them in person. 

There was something strange in the appearance of this In- 
dian woman, which at first excited the wonder, and at length 
secured the respect of the settlers. Her language was pure 
and elegant, sometimes even poetical beyond their comprehen- 
sion, and her sentiments were correct in principle, and full of 
simplicity. When she appeared in the village with moccasins 
or pretty painted baskets for sale, her manner was apprehensive 
and timid as that of a child. She never sat down, and seldom 
entered any dwelling, preferring to sell her merchandise in the 
open air, and using as few words as possible in the transaction. 
She was never seen to be angry, and a sweet patient smile 
always hovered about her lips when she spoke. In her face 
there was more than the remains of beauty; the poetry of 
intellect and of warm, deep feeling, shed a loveliness over it 
seldom witnessed on the brow of a savage. In truth, Malaeska 
was a strange and incomprehensible being to the settlers. But 
she was so quiet, so timid and gentle, that they all loved her, 


83 


MALAESKA. 


bought her little wares, and supplied her wants as if she had 
been one of themselves. 

There was something beautiful in the companionship which 
sprang up between the strange woman and Sarah Jones. Tlie 
young girl was benefited by it in a manner which was little 
to be expected from an intercourse so singular and, seemingly, 
so unnatural. The mother was a kind-hearted worldly woman, 
strongly attached to her family, but utterly devoid of those fine 
susceptibilities which make at once the happiness and the 
misery of so many human beings. But all the elements of an 
intellectual, delicate, and high-souled woman slumbered in the 
bosom of her child. They beamed in the depths of her large 
blue eyes, broke over her pure white forehead, like perfume 
from the leaves of a lily, and made her small mouth eloquent 
with smiles and the beauty of unpolished thoughts. 

At sixteen the character of the young girl had scarcely be- 
gun to develop itself ; but when the time arrived when she 
was to be sent away to school, there remained little except 
mere accomplishments for her to learn. Her mind had be- 
come vigorous by a constant intercourse with tlie-^ beautiful 
things of nature. All the latent properties of a warm, youth- 
ful heart, and of a superior intellect, had been gently called 
into action by the strange being who had gained such an as- 
cendenc}'" over her feelings. 

The Indian woman, who in herself combined all that was 
strong, picturesque, and imaginative in savage life, with the 
delicacy, sweetness, and refinement which follov/s in the train 
of civilization, had trod with her the wild beautiful scenery of 
the neighborhood. They had breathed the pure air of the 
mountain together, and watched the crimson and amber clouds 
of sunset melt into evening, when pure sweet thoughts came 
to their hearts naturally, as light shines from the bosom of the 
star. 

It is strange that the pure and simple religion which lifts 
the soul up to God, should have been first taught to the 
beautiful young white from the lips of a savage, when inspired 
by the dying glory of a sunset sky. Yet so it was; she had 
sat under preaching all her life, had imbibed creeds and 
shackled her spirit down with the opinions and traditions of 
other minds, nor dreamed that the love of God may some* 


TRUE RELIGION. 


8S 


times kindle in the human heart, like fire flashing up from an 
altar-stone ; and again, may expand gradually to the influence 
of the divine spirit, unfolding so gently that the soul itself 
scarcely knows at -what time it burst into flower — that every 
effort we make, for the culture of the heart and the expanding 
of the intellect, is a step toward the attainment of religion, if 
nothing more. 

When the pure simple faith of the Indian was revealed — 
when she saw how beautifully high energies and lofty feelings 
were mingled with the Christian meekness and enduring faith 
of her character, she began to love goodness for its own ex- 
ceeding beauty, and to cultivate those qualities that struck her 
as so worthy in her wild-wood friend. Thus Sarah attained a 
refinement of the soul which no school could have given her, 
and no superficial gloss could ever conceal or dim. This 
refinement of principle and feeling, lifted the young girl far 
out of her former commonplace associations ; and the gentle 
influence of her character was felt not only in her fother’a 
household, but through all the neighborhood. 


84 


MALAESKA. 


CHAPTER IX. 

“ She long’d for her mother’s loving kiss, 

And her father’s tender words, 

And her little sister’s joyous mirth, 

Like the song of summer birds. 

Her heart went back to the olden home 
That her memory knew so well, 

Till the veriest trifle of the past 
Swept o’er her like a spell.” 

Sarah Jones went to Manhattan at the appointed time, 
with a small trunk of clothing and a large basket of provisions; 
for a sloop in those clays was a long time in coming down the 
Hudson, even with a fiiir wind, and its approach to a settle- 
ment made more commotion than the largest Atlantic steamer 
could produce at the present day. So the good mother pro- 
vided her pretty pilgrim with a lading of wonder-cakes, with 
biscuits, dried beef, and cheese, enough to keep a company 
of soldiers in full ration for days. 

Besides all this plenteousness in the commissary department, 
the good lady brought out wonderful specimens of her own 
handiwork in the form of knit muffles, fine yarn stockings, 
and colored wristlets, that she had been years in laiitting for 
Sarah’s outfit when she should be called upon to undertake 
this perilous adventure into the great world. 

Beyond all this, Sarah had keepsakes from the children, with 
a store of pretty bracelets and fancy baskets from Malaeska, 
who parted with her in tenderness and sorrow ; for once 
more like a wild grape-vine, putting out its tendrils every- 
where for support, she was cast to the earth again. 

After all, Sarah did not find the excitement of her journey 
so very interesting, and but for the presence of her father on 
the sloop, she would have been fauly home-sick before the 
white sails of the sloop had rounded the Point. As it was, 
she grew thoughtful and almost sad as the somber magnifi- 
cence of the scenery unrolled itself. A settlement here and 
there broke the forest with smiles of civilization, which she 
passed with a proud consciousness of seeing the world ; but, 
altogether, she thought more of the rosy mother and riotous 
children at home than of new scenes or new people. 


SARAH JONES IN MANHATTAN. 


85 


At last Manhattan, with its girdle of silver waters, its gables 
and its overhanging trees, met her eager look. Here was her 
destiny — here she was to be taught and polished into a marvel 
of gentility. The town was very beautiful, but after the first 
novelty gave way, she grew more lonely than ever; every 
thing was so strange — the winding streets, the gay stores, and 
the quaint houses, with their peaks and dormer windows, all 
seeming to her far too grand for comfort. 

To one of these houses Arthur Jones conducted his daugh- 
ter, followed by a porter who carried her trunk on one shoul- 
der, while Jones took charge of the provision-basket, in person. 

There was nothing in all this very wonderful, but people 
turned to look at the group with more than usual interest, as 
it passed, for Sarah had all her mother’s fresh beauty, with 
nameless graces of refinement, which made her a very lovely 
young creature to look upon. 

When so many buildings have been raised in a city, so 
many trees uprooted, and ponds filled up, it is impossible to 
give the localities that formerly existed ; for all the rural land- 
marks are swept away. But, in the olden times, houses had 
breathing space for flowers around them in Manhattan, and a 
man of note gave his name to the house he resided in, The 
aristocratic portion of the town was around the Bowling 
Green and back into the neighboring streets. 

Somewhere in one of these streets, I can not tell the exact 
spot, for a little lake in the neighborhood disappeared soon 
after our story, and all the pretty points of the scene were 
destroyed with it ; but somewhere, in one of the most respect- 
able streets, stood a house with the number of gables and 
windows requisite to perfect gentility, and a large brass plate 
spread its glittering surface below the great brass Imocker. 
This plate set forth, in bright, gold letters, the fact that 
Madame Monot, relict of Monsieur^ Monot who had so distin- 
guished himself as leading teacher in one of the first female sem 
inaries in Paris, could be found within, at the head of a select 
school for young ladies. 

Sarah was overpowered by the breadth and brightness of 
this door-plate, and startled by the heavy reverberations of 
the knocker. There was something too solemn and grand 
about the entrance for perfect tranquillity. 


56 


MALAESKA, 


Mr. Jones looked back at her, as he dropped the knocker, with 
^ sort of tender self-complacency, for he expected that she would 
be rather taken aback by the splendor to which he was bring- 
ing her ; but Sarah only trembled and grew timid ; she would 
have given the world to turn and run away any distance so 
that in the end she reached home. 

The door opened, at least the upper half, and they were 
admitted into a hall paved with little Dutch tiles, spotlessly 
clean, through which they were led into a parlor barren and 
prim in all its appointments, but which was evidently the 
grand reception-room of the establishment. Nothmg could have 
been more desolate than the room, save that it was redeemed 
by two narrow windows which overlooked the angle of the 
green inclosure in which the house stood. This angle was 
separated by a low wall from what seemed a broad and 
spacious garden, well filled with fruit-trees and flowering 
shrubbery. 

The spring was just putting forth its first buds, and Sarah 
forgot the chilliness within as she saw the branches of a young 
apple-tree, flushed with the first tender green, drooping over 
the wall. It reminded her pleasantly of the orchard at home. 

The door opened, and, with a nervous start, Sarah arose 
with her father to receive the little Frenchwoman who came 
in with a fluttering courtesy, eager to do the honors of her 
establishment. 

Madame Monot took Sarah out of her father’s hands with a 
graceful dash that left no room for appeal. “She knew it all — 
exactly what the young lady required — what would best please 
her very respectable parents— there was no need of explana- 
tions— the young lady was fresh as a rose — very charming — in 
a few months they should see— that was all— Monsieur Jones 
need have no care about his child — Madame would undertake 
to finish her education very soon — music, of course — an instru- 
» ment had just come from Europe on purpose for the school — 
then French, nothing easier — Madame could promise that the 
young lady should speak French beautifully in one — two — 
three — four months, without doubt — Monsieur Jones might re- 
tire very satisfied — his daughter should come back different 
— perfect, in fact.” 

With all this volubility, ])oor Jones was half talked, half 


SAEAH, AT SCHOOL, 


87 


courtesied out of the house, without having uttered a single 
last word of farewell, or held his daughter one moment against 
the honest heart that yearned to carry her olf again, despite 
his great ambition to see her a lady. 

Poor Sarah gazed after liim. till her eyes were blinded with 
unshed tears ; then she arose with a heavy heart and followed 
Madame to the room which was henceforth to be her refuge 
from the most dreary routine of duties that ever a poor girl 
was condemned to. It was a comfort that the windows over- 
looked that beautiful garden. That night at a long, narrow 
table, set out with what the unsuspecting girl at first consid- 
ered the preliminaries of a meal, Sarah met the score of young 
ladies who were to be her schoolmates. Fortunately she had 
no appetite and did not mind the scant fare. Fifteen or 
twenty girls, some furtively, others boldly, turning their eyes 
upon her, was enough to frighten away the appetite of a less 
timid person. 

Poor Sarah ! of all the home-sick school-girls that ever 
lived, she was the most lonely. Madame’s patronizing kind- 
ness only sufficed to bring the tears into her eyes which she 
was struggling so bravely to keep back. 

But Sarah was courageous as well as sensitive. She came 
to Manhattan to study ; no matter if her heart ached, the brain 
must v7ork ; her father had made great sacrifices to give her 
six months at this expensive school ; his money and kindness 
must not be throw’n away. 

Thus the brave girl reasoned, and, smothering the haunting 
wish for home, she took up her tasks with energy. 

Meantime Jones returned home with a heavy heart and a 
new assortment of spring goods, that tlirew every fe- 
male heart in Catskill into a flutter of excitement. Every 
hen’s nest in the neighborhood was robbed before the eggs 
were cold, and its contents transported to the store. As for 
butter, there was a universal complaint of its scarcity on the 
home table,- while Jones began to think seriously of falling a 
cent on ti)e pound, it came in so abundantly. 


88 


MALAESEA. 


CHAPTER X. 

’Twas a dear, old-fashion’d garden, 

Half sunshine and half shade, 

Where all day long the birds and breeze 
A pleasant music made ; 

And hosts of bright and glowing flowers 
Their perfume shed around, ^ 

Till it was like a fairy haunt 
That knew no human sound. — Frank Le Benedict. 

It was a bright spring morning, the sky full of great fleecy 
clouds that chased each other over the clear blue, and a light 
wind stirring the trees until their opening buds sent forth a 
delicious fragrance, that was like a perfumed breath from the 
approaching summer. 

Sarah Jones stood by the window of her little room, looking 
wistfully out into the neighboring garden, oppressed by a 
feeling of loneliness and home-sickness, which made her long 
to throw aside her books, relinquish her half-acquired accom- 
plishments, and fly back to her quiet country home. 

It seemed to her that one romp with her brothers through 
the old orchard, pelting each other with the falling buds, 
would be worth all the French and music she could learn in a 
score of years. The beat of her mother’s lathe in the old- 
fashioned loom, would have been pleasanter music to her ear, 
than that of the pianoforte, which she had once thought so 
grand an affair; but since then she had spent so many weary 
hours over it, shed so many tears upon the cold white keys, 
which made her fingers ache worse than ever the spinning- 
wheel had done, that, like any other school-girl, she was 
almost inclined to regard the vaunted piano as an instrument 
of torture, invented expressly for her annoyance. 

She was tired of thinking and acting by rule, and though 
Madame Monot was kind enough in her way, the discipline to 
which Sarah was forced to submit, was very irksome to the 
untrained country girl. She was tired of having regular hours 
for study — tired of walking out for a stated time in procession 
with the other girls — nobody daring to move with any thing 
like naturalness or freedom — and very often she felt almost 
inclined to write home and ask them to send for her. 


THE BEAUTIFUL GAKDEN. 


89 


It was in a restive, iinliappy mood, like the one we have 
been describing, that she stood that morning at the window, 
when she ought to have been hard at work over the pile of 
books which lay neglected upon her little table. 

That pretty garden which she looked down upon, was a sore 
temptation to her ; and had Madame Monot known how it 
distracted Sarah’s attention, there is every reason to believe 
that she would have been removed in all haste to the opposite 
side of the house, where, if she chose to idle at her casement, 
there w’ould be nothing more entertaming than a hard brick 
wall to look at. Just then, the garden was more attractive 
than at any other season of the year. The spring sunshine 
had made the shorn turf like a green carpet, the trim flower- 
beds were already full of early blossoms, the row^ of apple- 
trees was one great mass of flowers, and the tall pear-tree in 
the corner was just beginning to lose its delicate white leaves, 
sprinkling them daintily over the grass, where they fluttered 
about like a host of tiny butterflies. 

The old-fashioned stoop that opened from the side of the 
house into the garden, was covered with a wdld grape-vine, 
that clambered up to the pointed Dutch gables, hung down 
over the narrow window^s, and twdned and tangled itself about 
as freely and luxuriantly as it could have done in its native 
forest. 

Sarah w^atched the gardener as he w^ent soberly about his 
various duties, and she envied him the privilege of wandering 
at will among the graveled walks, pausing under the trees and 
bending over the flower-beds. 

Perhaps in these days, when nothing but scentless japonicas 
and rare foreign plants — are considered endurable, that 
garden would be an ordinary affair enough, at which no well- 
trained boarding-school miss would condescend to look for an 
instant ; but to Sarah Jones it was a perfect little paradise. 

The lilac bushes nodded in the wdnd, shaking their purple 
and wdiite plumes, like groups of soldiers on duty; great 
masses of snow-balls stoo^ up in the center of the beds; 
peonies, violets, lilies of the valley, tulips, syringas, and a host 
of other dear old-fashioned flowers, lined the walks ; and, rdto- 
gether, the garden was lovely enough to justify the poor girl’s 
admiration. There slie stood, quite forgetful of her duties ; the 


90 


MALAESKA. 


clock in the hall struck its warning note — she did not even hear 
it ; some one might at any moment enter and surprise her in the 
midst of her idleness and disobedience— she never once thought 
of it, so busily was she watching every thing in the garden. 

The man finished his morning’s work and went away, but 
Sarah did not move. A pair of robins had flown into the tall 
pear-tree, and were holding an animated conversation, inter- 
spersed with bursts and gushes of song. They flew from one 
tree to another, once hovering near the grape-vine, but return- 
ed to the pear-tree at last, sang, chirped, and danced about in 
frantic glee, and at last made it evident that they intended to 
build a nest in that very tree. Sarah could have clapped her 
hands with delight ! It was just under her window — she 
could watch them constantly, study or no study. She worked 
herself into such a state of excitement at the thought, that 
Madame Monot would have been shocked out of her proprieties 
at seeing one of her pupils guilty of such folly. 

The clock again struck — that time m such a sharp, reprov- 
ing way, that it reached even Sarah’s ear. She started, looked 
nervously round, and saw the heap of books upon the table. 

“ Oh, dear me,” she sighed ; “ those tiresome lessons ! I 
had forgotten all about them. Well, I will go to studying in 
a moment,” she added, as if addressing her conscience or her 
fears. “ Oh, that robin — how he does sing.” 

She forgot her books again, and just at that moment there 
was a new object of interest added to those which the garden 
already possessed. 

The side door of the house opened, and an old gentleman 
stepped out upon the broad stoop, stood there for a few mo- 
ments, evidently enjoying the morning air, then passed slowly 
down the steps into the garden, supporting himself by his stout 
cane, and walking with considerable care and difficulty, like 
any feeble old man, 

Sarah had often seen him before, and she knew very well 
who he was. He was the ownej; of the house that the simple 
girl so coveted, and his name was Danforth. 

She had learned every thing about him, as a school-girl is 
sure to do concerning any person or thing that strikes her 
fancy. He was very wealthy indeed, and had no family ex- 
cept his wife, the tidiest, darling old lady, who often M^alked 


A FIT OF APOPLEXY. 


91 


in the garden herself, and always touched the flowers, as she 
passed, as if they had been pet children. 

The venerable old pair had a grandson, but he was aw^ay in 
Europe, so they lived in their pleasant mansion quite alone, 
with the exception of a few domestics, who looked nearly as 
aged and respectable as their master and mistress. 

Sarah had speculated a great deal about her neighbors. 
She did so long to know them, to be free to run around in 
their garden, and sit in the pleasant rooms that overlooked it, 
glimpses of which she had often obtained through the open 
windows, when the housemaid was putting things to rights. 

Sarah thought that she might possibly be a little afraid of 
the old gentleman, he looked so stern ; but his wife she longed 
to kiss and make friends with at once, she looked so gentle 
and kind, that even a bird could not have been afraid of her. 

Sarah watched Mr, Danforth walk slowly down the princi- 
pal garden-path, and seat himself in a little arbor overrun by 
a trumpet honeysuckle, which was not yet in blossom, although 
there were faint traces of red among the green leaves, which 
gave promise of an ample store of blossoms before many weeks. 

He sat there some time, apparently enjoying the sunshine 
that stole in through the leaves. At length Sarah saw him 
rise, move toward the entrance, pause an instant, totter, then 
fall heavily upon the ground. 

She did not wait even to think or cry out — every energy of 
her free, strong nature was aroused. She flew out of her room, 
down the stairs, fortunately encountering neither teachers nor 
pupils, and hurried out of the street-door. 

The garden was separated from Madame Monot’s narrow 
yard by a low stone wall, along the top of which ran a picket 
fence. Sarah saw a step-ladder that had been used by a ser- 
vant in washing windows; she seized it, dragged it to the 
wall, and sprang lightly from thence into the garden. 

It seemed to her that she would never reach the spot where 
the poor gentleman was lying, although, in truth, scarcely 
three minutes had elapsed between the time that she saw him 
fall and reached the place where he lay. 

Sarah stooped over him, raised his head, and knew at once 
what was the matter— he had been seized with apoplexy. She 
had seen her grandfather die with it, and recognized the 


92 


MALAESKA. 


symptoms at once. It was useless to think of carrying him ; 
so she loosened his neckcloth, lifted his head upon the arbor 
seat, and darted toward the house, calling with all her might 
the name by which she had many times heard the gardener 
address the black cook. 

“ Eunice ! Eunice !” 

At her frantic summons, out from the kitchen rushed the 
old woman, followed by several of. her satellites, all screaming 
at once to know what was the matter, and wild with astonish- 
ment at the sight of a stranger in the garden. 

“ Quick 1 quick !” cried Sarah. “ Your master has been 
taken with a fit ; come and carry him into the house. One 
of you run for a doctor.” 

“Oh, de laws! oh, dear! oh, dear!” resounded on every 
side ; but Sarah directed them with so much energy that the 
women, aided by an old negro who had been roused by the 
disturbance, conveyed their master into the house, and laid 
him upon a bed in one of the lower rooms. 

“ Where is your mistress ?” questioned Sarah. 

“ Oh, she’s gwine out,” sobbed the cook ; “ oh, my poor ole 
masser, my poor ole masser !” 

“ Have you sent for the doctor ?” 

“Yes, young miss, yes; he’ll be here in a minit, bress yer 
pooty face.” 

Sarah busied herself over the insensible man, applying every 
remedy that she could remember of having seen her mother 
use when her grandfather was ill, and really did the very 
things that ought to have been done. 

It was not long before the doctor arrived, bled his patient 
freely, praised Sarah’s presence of mind, and ver}'- soon the 
old gentleman returned to consciousness. 

Sarah heard one of the servants exclaim: “Oh, dar’s 
missus ! praise de Lord !” 

A sudden feeling of shyness seized the girl, and she stole 
out of the room and went into the garden, determined to 
escape unseen. But before she reached the arbor she heard 
one of the servants calling after her. 

“ Young miss ! young miss ! Please to wait ; ole missus 
wants to speak to you.” 

Sarah turned and walked toward the house, ready to burst 


THE WISH GRATIFIED. 


93 


into teai's with timidity and excitement. But the lady whom 
she had so longed to know, came down the steps and moved 
toward her, holding out her hand. She was very pale, and 
shaking from head to foot ; but she spoke with a certain calm- 
ness, which it was evident she would retain imder the most 
trying circumstances. 

“ I can not thank you,” she said ; “ if it had not been for 
you, I should never have seen my husband alive again.” 

Sarah began to sob, the old lady held out her arms, and the 
frightened girl actually fell into them. There they stood for 
a few moments, weeping in each other’s embrace, and by those 
very tears establishing a closer intimacy than years of common 
intercourse would have done. 

“ How did you happen to see him fall ?” asked the old lady. 

“ I was looking out of my window,” replied Sarah, pointing 
to her open casement, “ and when I saw it I ran over at once.” 

“ You are a pupil of Madame Monot’s, then ?” 

“Yes — and, oh my, I must go back! They will scold me 
dreadfully for being away so long.” 

“ Do not be afraid,” said Mrs. Danforth, keeping fast hold 
of her hand when she tried to break away. “ I will make 
your excuses to Madame ; come into the house. ' I can not 
let you go yet.” 

She led Sarah into the house, and seated her in an easy 
chair in the old-fashioned sitting-room. 

“Wait here a few minutes, if you please, my dear. I mus^ 
go to my husband.” 

She went aw'ay and left Sarah quite confused with the 
strangeness of the whole affiiir. Here she was, actually seated 
in the very apartment she had so desired to enter — the old 
lady she had so longed to know addressing her as if she had 
been a I'avorite child. 

She peeped out of the window toward her late prison; 
every thing looked quiet there, as usual. She wondered what 
dreadful penance she would be made to undergo, and decided 
that even bread and water for two days would not be so great 
a hardship, when she had the incident of the morning to re- 
flect upon. 

She looked about the room, with its quaint furniture, every 
thing so tidy and elegant, looking as if a speck of dust had 


94 


MALAKSKA. 


never by any accident settled in the apartment, and thinkhig 
it the prettiest place she had seen in her life. 

Then she began thinking about the poor sick man, and 
worked herself into a fever of anxiety to hear tidings concern- 
ing him. Just then a servant entered with a tray of refresh- 
ments, and set it on the table near her, saying : 

“ Please, miss, my missus says you must be hungry, ’cause 
it’s your dinner-time.” 

“ And how is your master ?” Sarah asked. 

“ Bery comferble now ; missee’ll be here in a minit. Now 
please to eat sumfin.” 

Sarah Avas by no means loth to comply with the invitation, 
for the old cook had piled the tray with all sorts of delicacies, 
that presented a pleasing contrast to the plain fare she had 
been accustomed to of late. 

By the time she had finished her repast Mrs. Danforth re- 
turned, looking more composed and relieved. 

“ The doctor gives me a great deal of encouragement,” she 
said ; “ my husband is able to speak ; by to-morrow he will 
thank you better than I can.” 

“ Oh, no,” stammered Sarah ; “ I don’t want any thanks, 
please. I didn’t think — I — ” 

She fairly broke down, but Mrs. Danforth patted her hand 
and said, kindly: 

“ I understand. But at least you must let me love you very 
much.” 

Sarah felt her heart flutter and her cheeks glow. The 
blush and smile on that young face were a more fitting answer 
than words could have given. 

“ I have sent an explanation of your absence to Madame 
Monot,” continued Mrs. Danforth, “and she has given you 
permission to spend the day with me ; so 3'-ou need have no 
fear of being blamed.” 

The thought of a whole day’s freedom was exceedingly 
pleasant to Sarah, particularly when it was to be spent in that 
old house, which had always appeared as interesting to her as 
a storjA It required but a short time for Mrs. Danforth and 
her to become Avell acquainted, and the old lady was charmed 
with her loveliness, and natural, graceful manners. 

She insisted upon accompanying Mrs. Danforth into the 


NEW FRIENDS. 


05 


sick room, and made herself so useful there, that the dear lady 
mentally wondered how she had ever got on without her. 

When Sarah returned to her home that night, she felt that 
sense of relief which any one who has led a monotonous life 
for months must have experienced, when some sudden event has 
changed its whole current, and given a new coloring to things 
that before appeared tame and insignificant. 

During the following days Sarah was a frequent visitor at 
Mr. Danforth’s house, and after that, circumstances occurred 
which drew her into still more intimate companionship with 
her new friend. 

One of Madame Monot’s house-servants was taken ill with 
typhus fever, and most of the young ladies left the school for 
a few weeks. Mrs. Danforth insisted upon Sarah’s making 
her home at their house during the interval, an invitation 
which she accepted with the utmost delight. 

Mr. Danforth still lingered — could speak and move — but the 
favorable symptoms which at first presented themselves had 
entirely disappeared, and there was little hope given that he 
could do more than linger for a month or two longer. During 
that painful season Mrs. Danforth found in Sarah a sympathiz- 
ing and consoling friend. The sick man himself became 
greatly attached to her, and could not bear that she should even 
leave his chamber. 

The young girl was very happy in feeling herself thus prized 
and loved, and the quick weeks spent in that old house were 
perhaps among the happiest of her life, in spite of the sadden- 
ing associations which surrounded her. 

One morning while she was sitting with the old gentleman, 
who had grown so gentle and dependent that those who had 
known him in former years would scarcely have recognized 
Him, Mrs. Danforth entered the room, bearing several letters in 
her hand. 

“ European letters, my dear,” she said to her husband, and 
while she put on her glasses and seated herself to read them, 
Sarah stole out into the garden. 

She had not been there long, enjoying the fresh loveliness 
of the day, before she heard Mrs. Danforth call her. 

“ Sarah, my dear ; Sarah.” 

The girl went back to the door where tlie old lady stood. 


96 


MALAESKA. 


“ Share a little good news with me in the midst of all our 
trouble,” she said ; “ my dear, my boy — my grandson — is com- 
ing home. 

Sarah’s first thought was one of regret — every thing would 
be so changed by the arrival of a stranger ; but that was only 
a passing pang of selfishness ; her next reflection was one of 
unalloyed delight, for the sake of that aged couple. 

“I am very glad, dear madam; his coming will do his 
grandfather so much good.” 

“Yes, indeed; more than all the doctors in the world.” 

“ When do you expect him ?” 

“ Any day, now ; he was to sail a few days after the ship 
that brought these letters, and as this vessel has been detained 
by an accident, he can not be far away.” 

“ I am to go back to school to-day,” said Sarah, regretfully. 

“ But you will be with us almost as much,” replied Mrs. 
Danforth. “I have your mother’s permission, and will go 
myself to speak with Madame. You will run over every day 
to your lessons, but you will live here ; we can not lose our 
pet so soon.” 

“ You are very kind — oh, so kind,” Sarah said, quite radiant 
at the thought of not being confined any longer in the dark 
old school-building. 

“ It is you who are good to us. But come, we will go over 
now ; I must tell Madame Monot at once.” 

The explanations were duly made, and Sarah returned to 
her old routine of lessons ; but her study-room was now the 
garden, or any place in Mr. Danforth’s house that she fancied. 

The old gentleman was belter again ; able to be wheeled 
out of doors into the sunshine ; and there was nothing he liked 
so much as sitting in the garden, his wife knitting by his side, 
Sarah studying at his feet, and the robins singing in the pear- 
trees overhead, as if feeling it a sacred duty to pay their rent 
by morning advances of melody. 


AN AEEIVAL. 


97 


CHAPTER XI. 

A welcome to the homestead — 

The gables and the trees ; 

And welcome to the true hearts, 

As the sunshine and the breeze. 

One bright morning, several weeks after Mr. Danfortli’s 
attack, the three were seated in their favorite nook in the 
garden. 

It was a holiday with Sarah ; there were no lessons to 
study ; no exercises to practice ; no duty more irksome than 
that of reading the newspaper aloud to the old gentleman, 
who particularly fancied her fresh, happy voice. 

i\Irs, Danforth was occupied with her knitting, and Sarah 
sat at their feet upon a low stool, looking so much like a 
favorite young relative that it was no wonder if the old pair 
forgot that she was unconnected with them, save by the bonds 
of affection, and regarded her as being, in reality, as much a 
part of their family as they considered her in their hearts. 

While they sat there, some sudden noise attracted Mrs. 
Danforth’s attention ; she rose and went into the house so 
quietly that the others scarcely noticed her departure. 

It was not long before she came out again, walking very 
hastily for her, and with such a tremulous flutter in her man- 
ner, that Sarah regarded her in surprise. 

“ William !” she said to her husband, “ William !” 

He roused himself from the partial doze into which he had 
fallen, and looked up. 

“ Did you speak to me ?” he asked- 

“ I have good news for you. Don’t be agitated — it is all 
pleasant.” 

He struggled up from his seat, steadying his trembling 
hands upon his staff. 

“ My boy has come !” he exclaimed, louder and more clearly 
than he had spoken for weeks ; “ William, my boy 1” 


98 


MALAESKA. 


At the summons, a young man came out of the house and 
ran toward them. The old gentleman flung his arms about 
his neck and strained him close to his heart. 

“ My boy !” was all he could say ; “ my William !” 

When they had all grown somewhat calmer, Mrs. Danforth 
called Sarah, who was standing at a little distance. . 

“ I want you to know and thank this young lady, William,” 
she said ; “ your grandfather and I owe her a great deal.” 

She gave him a brief account of the old gentleman’s fall, 
and Sarah’s presence of mind ; but the girl’s crimson cheeks 
warned her to pause. 

“ No words can repay such kindness,” said the young man, 
as he relinquished her hand, over which he had bowed w’ith 
the ceremonious respect of the time. 

“ It is I who owe a great deal to your grandparents,” Sarah 
replied, a little tremulously, but trying to shake off the timidity 
which she felt beneath his dark eyes. “ I was a regular pris- 
oner, like any other school-girl, and they had the goodness to 
open the door and let me out.” 

“ Then fidgety old Madame Monot had you in charge ?” 
young Danforth said, laughing ; “ I can easily understand 
that it must be a relief to get occasionally where you are not 
obliged to wait and think by rule.” 

“ There — there !” said the old lady ; “ William is encour- 
aging insubordination already ; you will be a bad couliselor 
for Sarah.” 

Both she and her husband betrayed the utmost satisfaction 
at the frank and cordial conversation which went on between 
the young pair ; and in an hour Sarah was as much at ease 
as if she had been gathering wild-flowers in her native woods. 

Danfluth gave them long and amusing accounts of his ad- 
ventures, talked naturally and well of the countries he had 
visited, the notable places lie had seen, and never had man 
three more attentive auditors. 

That was a delightful day to Sarah ; and as William Dan- 
forth had not lost, in his foreign wanderings, the freshness 
and enthusiasm pleasant in youth, it was full of enjoyment to 
him likewise. 

There was something so innocent in Sarah’s loveliness — 
something so unstudied m her graceful manner, that the very 


STUDYING FRENCH. 


99 


contrast she presented to the artificial women of the world 
with whom he had been of late familiar, gave her an addi- 
tional charm in the eye of the young man. 

Many times, while they talked, Mrs. Danforth glanced anx- 
iously toward her husband ; but his smile reassured her, and 
there stole over her pale face a light from within which told 
of some pleasant vision that had brightened the winter season 
of her heart, and illuminated it with a reflected light almost 
as beautiful as that which had flooded it in its spring-time, 
when her dreams w^ere of her own future, and the aged, de- 
' crepit man by her side a stalwart youth, noble and brave as 
the boy in whom their past seemed once more to live. 

“If Madame Monot happens to see me she will be shocked,” 
Sarah said, laughingly. “ She told me that she hoped I would 
improve my holiday by reading some French sermons that 
she gave me.” 

“ And have you looked at them ?” Danforth asked. 

“ I am afraid they are mislaid,” she replied, mischievously. 

“ Not greatly to your annoyance, I fancy ? I think if I 
had been obliged to learn French from old-fashioned sermons, 
it would have taken me a long time to acquire the language.” 

“ I don’t think much of French sermons,” remarked ]\Irs. 
Danforth, with a doubtful shake of the head. 

“ Nor of the people,” added her husband ; “ you never did 
like them, Therese.” 

She nodded assent, and young Danforth addressed Sarah in 
Madame Monot’s much-vaunted language. She answered 
him hesitatingly, and they held a little chat, he laughing 
good-naturedly at her mistakes and assisting her to correct 
them, a proceeding which the old couple enjoyed as much as 
the young pair, so that a vast amount of quiet amusement 
grew out of the affair. 

They spent the whole morning in the garden, and when 
Sarah went up to her room for a time to be alone with the 
new world of thought which had opened upon her, she felt as 
if she had Imown William Danforth half her life. She did not 
attempt to analyze her feelings ; but they were very pleasant 
and filled her soul with a delicious restlessness like gushes of 
ugony struggling from the heart of a song-bird. Perhaps 
Danforth made no more attend pt than she to understand the 


100 


MALAESKA. 


emotious wliicli had been aroused within him ; but they were 
both very happy, careless as the young are sure to be, and so 
they went on toward the beautiful dream that brightens every 
life, and which spread before them in the nearing future. 

And so the months rolled on, and that pleasant old Dutch 
house grew more and more like a paradise each day. An- 
other and another quarter was added to Sarah’s school-term. 
She saw the fruit swell from its blossoms into form till its 
golden and mellow ripeness filled the garden with fragrance. 
Then she saw the leaves drop fi*om the trees and take a thou- 
sand gorgeous dyes from the frost. Still the old garden was a 
paradise. She saw those leaves grow crisp and sere, rustling 
to her step with mournful sighs, and giving themselves with 
shudders to the cold wind. Still the garden was paradise. 
She saw the snow fall, white and cold, over lawn and gravel- 
walk, bending down the evergreens and tender shrubs, while 
long, bright icicles hung along the gables or broke into frag- 
ments on the ground beneath. Still the garden was paradise ; 
for love has no season and desolation is unknown where he 
exists, even though his sacred presence is unsuspected. Long 
before the promised period arrived, there was no falsehood in 
Madame Monot’s assertion that her pupil should be perfect; 
for a lovelier or more graceful young creature than Sarah 
Jones could not well exist. How it would have been had she 
been entirely dependent on the school-teachers for her lessons, 
I can not pretend to say, but the pleasant studies which were 
so delicately aided in that old summer-house, while the old 
people sat by just out of ear-shot — as nice old people should 
on such occasions — were effective enough to build up half a 
dozen schools, if the progress of one pupil would suffice. 

At such times old Mrs. Danforth would look up blandly 
from her work and remark in an innocent way to her hus- 
band, “That it was really beautiful to see how completely 
Sarah took to her lessons and how kindly William staid at 
home to help her. Really,” she thought, “ traveling abroad 
did improve a person’s disposition wonderfully. It gives a 
a young man so much steadiness of character. There was 
William, now, who was so fond of excitement, and never 
could be persuaded to stay at home before, he could barely 
be driven across tlie threshold now.-” 


THE OLD MAN TROUBLED. 


101 


The old man listened to these remarks with a keen look of 
the eye ; he was asking himself the reason of this change in 
his grandson, and tlie answer brought a grim smile to his lips. 
The fair girl, who was now almost one of his household, had 
become so endeared to him that he could not bear the idea of 
even parting with her again, and the thought that the line of 
his name and property might yet persuade her to make the 
relationship closer still, had grown almost into a passion with 
the old man. 

This state of things lasted only a few months. Before the 
leaves fell, a change came upon Mr. Danforth. He was for 
some time more listless and oppressed than usual, and seemed 
to be looking into the distance for some thought that had dis- 
turbed him. One day, without preliminaries, he began to talk 
with his wife about William’s father, and, for the first time in 
years, mentioned his unhappy marriage. 

“ I have sometimes thought,” said the lady, bending over 
her work to conceal the emotion that stirred her face, “ I have 
sometimes thought that w^e should have told our grandson of 
all this years ago.” 

The old man’s hand began to tremble on the top of his 
cane. His eyes grew troubled and he was a long time in an- 
sw^ering. 

“ It is too late now — we must let the secret die with us. It 
would crush him forever. I was a proud man in those clays,” 
he said, at last ; “ proud and stubborn. God has smitten me, 
therefore, I sometimes think. The thought of that poor 
woman, whose child I took away, troubles me at nights. Tell 
me, Therese, if you know any thing about her. The day of 
my sickness I went to the lodge in Weehawken where she 
was last seen, hoping to find her, praying for time to make 
atonement ; but the lodge was in ruins — no one could be found 
who even remembered her. It had cost me a great effort to 
go, and when the disappointment came, I fell beneath it. 
Tell me, Therese, if you have heard any thing of Malaeska ?” 

The good lady was silent ; but she grew pale, and the 
w'ork trembled in her hands. 

“You will not speak?” said the old man, sharply. 

“ Yes,” said the wife, gently laying down her work, and 
lifting her compassionate ej^es to the keen face bending to* 


102 


MALAESKA, 


ward her, “ I did hear, from some Indians that came to the 
fur-stations up the river, that an— that Malaeska went back to 
her tribe.” 

“There is something more,” questioned the old man — 
“ something you keep back.” 

The poor wife attempted to shake her head, but she could 
not, even by a motion, force herself to an untruth. So, drop- 
ping both hands in her lap, she shrunk away from his glance, 
and the tears began to roll down her cheeks. 

“ Speak !” said the old man, hoarsely. 

She answered, in a voice low and hoarse as his own, “ Ma- 
laeska went to her tribe ; but they have cruel laws, and look- 
ing upon her as a traitor in giving her son to us, sent her into 
the woods with one who was chosen to kill her.” 

The old man did not speak, but his eyes opened wildly, 
and he fell forward upon his face. 

William and Sarah were coquetting, with her lessons, under 
the old pear-tree, between the French phrases ; he had been 
whispering something sweeter than words ever sounded to her 
before in any language, and her cheeks were one flush of roses 
as his breath floated over them. 

“ Tell me — look at me — any thing to say that you have 
known this all along,” he said, bending his flashing eyes on 
her face with a glance that made her tremble. 

She attempted to look up, but failed in the effort. Like a 
rose that feels the sunshine too warmly, she drooped under 
the glow of her own blushes. 

“ Do speak,” he pleaded. 

“ Yes,” she answered, lifting her face with modest firmness 
to his, “ Yes, I do love you.” 

As the words left her lips, a cry made them both start. 

“ It is grandmother’s voice ; he is ill again,” said the young 
man. 

They moved away, shocked by a sudden recoil of feelings. 
A moment brought them in sight of the old man, who lay 
prostrate on the earth. His wife was bending over him, striv- 
ing to loosen his dress with her withered little hands. 

“ Oh, come,” she pleaded, with a look of helpless distress ; 
“ help me untie this, or he will never breathe again.” 

It was all useless ; the old man never did breathe again. 


DEATH OP DANFORTH’s ORANDPARENTS. lOS 

A single blow bad smitten him clown. They bore him into 
the house, but the leaden weight of his body, the limp fall of 
his limbs, all revealed the mournful truth too plainly. It was 
death — sudden and terrible death. 

If there is an object on earth calculated to call forth the 
best sympathies of humanity, it is an “ old widow” — a woman 
who has spent the spring, noon, and autumn of life, till it 
verges into winter, with one man, the first love of her youth, 
the last love of her age — the spring-time when love is a pas- 
sionate sentiment, the winter-time when it is August. 

In old age men or women seldom resist troubles — it comes, 
and they bow to it. So it was with this widow : she uttered 
no complaints, gave way to no wild outbreak of sorrow — 
“ she was lonesome — very lonesome without him,” that was 
all her moan ; but the raven threads that lay in the snow of 
her hair, were lost in the general whiteness before the funeral 
was over, and after that she began to bend a little, using his 
staff to lean on. It was mournful to see how fondly her little 
wrinkled hands would cling around the head, and the way 
she had of resting her delicate chin upon it, exactly as he had 
done. 

But even his staff', the stout prop of his waning manhood, 
was not strong enough to keep that gentle old woman from 
the grave. She carried it to the last, but one day it stood 
unused by the bed, which was white and cold as the snow- 
drift through which they dug many feet before they could lay 
her by her husband’s side. 


104 


MAT.ATCfllirA. 


CHAPTER XII. 

Put blossoms ou the mantle-piece, 

Throw sand upon the floor, 

A guest is coming to the house. 

That never came before. 

Sarah Jones had been absent several months, when a 
rumor got abroad in the village, that the school-girl had made 
a proud conquest in Manhattan. It was said that Squire 
Jones had received letters from a wealthy merchant of that 
place, and that he was going down the river to conduct his 
daughter home, when a wedding would soon follow, and Sarah 
Jones be made a lady. 

This report gained much of its probability from the de- 
meanor of Mrs. Jones. Her port became more lofty when she 
appeared in the street, and she was continually throwing out 
insinuations and half-uttered hints, as if her heart were pant- 
ing to unburden itself of some proud secret, which she was 
not yet at liberty to reveal. 

AVlien Jones actually started for Manhattan, and it was whis- 
pered about that his wife had taken a dress-pattern of rich 
chintz from the store, for herself, and had bought each of the 
boys a new wool hat, conjecture became almost certainty ; 
and it was asserted boldly, that Sarah Jones was coming home 
to be married to a man as rich as all out-doors, and that her 
mother was beginning to hold her head above common folks 
on the strength of it. 

About three weeks after this report was known, Mrs. Jones, 
whose motions were watched with true village scrutiny, gave 
demonstrations of a thorough house-cleaning. An old woman, 
who went out to days’ work, was called in to help, and there 
were symptoms of slaughter observable in the barn-yard one 
night after the turkeys and chickens had gone to roost ; all of 
which kept the public mind in a state of pleasant excitement. 

Early the next morning, after the barn-yard massacre, Mrs. 


PREPARDTG FOR COMl^AITr. 


105 


Jones was certainly a very busy woman. All the morning 
was occupied in sprinkling white sand on the nicely-scoured 
floor of the out-room, or parlor, which she swept very expertly 
into a series of angular figures called herring-bones, with a 
new splint broom. Aftei this, she filled the fire-place with 
branches of hemlock and white pine, wreathed a garland of 
asparagus, crimson with berries, around the little looking-glass, 
and, droppmg on one knee, was filling a large pitcher on the 
hearth from an armful of wild-flowers, which the boys had 
brought her from the woods, when the youngest son came 
hurrying up from the Point, to inform her that a sloop had 
just hove in sight and was making full sail up the river. 

“ Oh, dear, I shan’t be half ready !” exclaimed the alarmed 
housekeeper, snatching up a handful of meadow-lilies, mottled 
BO heavily with dark-crimson spots, that the golden bells 
seemed drooping beneath a weight of rubies and small garnet 
stones, and crowding them down into the pitcher amid the 
rosy spray of wild honeysuckle-blossoms, and branches of 
flowering dogwood. 

“ Here, Ned, give me the broom, quick ! and don’t shufiBe 
over the sand so. There, now,” she continued, gathering up 
the fragments of leaves and flowers from the hearth, and 
glancing hastily around the room, “ I wonder if any thing else 
is wanting ?” 

Every thing seemed in order, even to her critical eye. The 
tea-table stood in one corner, its round top turned down and 
its polished surface reflecting the herring-bones drawn in the 
sand, with the distinctness of a mirror. The chairs were in 
their exact places, and the new crimson moreen cushions and 
valance decorated the settee, in all the brilliancy of their first 
gloss. Yes, nothing more was to be done, still the good 
woman passed her apron over the speckless table and flirted 
it across a chair or two, before she went out, quite determined 
that no stray speck of dust should disgrace her child on coming 
home. 

Mrs. Jones closed the door, and hurried up to the square 
bedroom, to be certain that all was right there also. A patch- 
ated quilt, pieced in what old ladies call “ a rising sun,” radi- 
workin tints of red, green, and yellow, from the center of the 
bed down to the snow-white -^^alances. A portion of the 


108 


MALAESKA. 


spotless homespun sheet was carefullv turned over the upper 
edge of the quilt, and the whole was surmounted by a pair of 
pillows, white as a pile of newly-drifted snow-flakes. A pot 
of roses, on the window-sill, shed a delicate reflection over the 
muslin curtains looped up on either side of the sash ; and the 
fresh wind, as it swept through, scattered their fragrant breath 
deliciously through the little room. 

Mrs. Jones gave a satisfied look and then hurried to the 
chamber prepared for her daughter, and began to array her 
comely person in the chintz dress, which had created such a 
sensation in the village. She had just encased her arms in 
the sleeves, when the door partly opened, and the old woman, 
who had been hired for a few days as “ help,” put her head 
through the opening. “ I say. Miss Jones, I can’t And nothin’ 
to make the stuffin’ out on.” 

“ My goodness ! isn’t that turkey in the oven yet ? I do 
believe, if I could be cut into a hundred pieces, it wouldn’t be 
enough for this house. What do you come to me for ? — don’t 
you know enough to make a little stuffing, without my help ?” 

“ Only give me enough to do it with, and if I don’t, why, 
there don’t nobody, that’s all; but I’ve been a looking all 
Dver for some sausengers, and can’t find none, nowhere.” 

“ Sausages ? Why, Mrs. Bates, you don’t think that I 
would allow that fine turkey to be stuffed with sausages ?” 

“ I don’t know nothin’ about it, but I tell you just what it 
is. Miss Jones, if you are a-growing so mighty partic’lar about 
your victuals, just cause your darter’s a-coming liome with a 
rich beau, you’d better cook ’em yourself ; nobody craves the 
job,” retorted the old woman, in her shrillest voice, shutting 
the door with a jar that shook the wdiole apartment. 

“ Now the cross old thing will go off just to spite me,” 
muttered Mrs. Jones, trying to smother her vexation, and, 
opening the door, she called to the angry “ help 

“ Why, Mrs. Bates, do come back, you did not stay to hear 
me out. Save the chickens’ livers and cliop them up with 
bread and butter ; season it nicely, and, I dare say, you will 
be as well pleased with it as can be.” 

“ Well, and if I du, what shall I season with — sage or sum- 
mer-savory ? I’m sure I’m v^illing to du my best,” answered 
the partially mollified old v. dman. 


READY FOR COMPANY. 


107 


“ A little of both, Mrs. Bates — oh, dear ! won’t you come 
back and see if you can make my gown meet ? There — do I 
look fit to be seen ?” 

“ Now, what do you ask that for. Miss Jones ? you know 
you look as neat as a new pin. This is a mighty purty cal- 
erco, ain’t it, though ?” 

The squire’s lady had not forgotten all the feelings of her 
younger days, and the old woman’s compliment had its effect. 

“ I will send down to the store for some tea and molasses 
for you to take home to-night, Mrs. Bates, and — ” 

“ Mother ! mother !” shouted young Ned, bolting into the 
room, “ the sloop has tacked, and is making for the creek. I 
see three people on the deck, and I’m almost sure father was 
one of them — they will be here in no time.” 

“ Gracious me !” muttered the old woman, hurrying away 
to the kitchen. 

Mrs. Jones smoothed down the folds of her new dress with 
both hands, as she ran down to the “ out-room.” She took 
her station in a stiff, high-backed chair by the window, with a 
look of consequential gentility, as if she had done nothing but 
sit still and receive company all her life. 

After a few minutes’ anxious watching, she saw her husband 
and daughter coming up from the creek, accompanied by a 
slight, dark, and remarkably graceful young man, elaborately, 
but not gayly dressed, for the fashion of the time, and betray- 
ing even in his air and walk peculiar traits of high-breeding 
and refinement. His head was slightly bent, and he seemed 
to be addressing the young lady who leaned on his arm. 

The mother’s heart beat high with mingled pride and affec- 
tion, as she gazed on her beautiful daughter thus proudly es- 
corted home. There was triumph in the thought, that almost 
every person in the village might witness the air of gallantry 
and homage with which she was regarded by the handsomest 
and richest merchant of Manhattan. She saw that her child 
looked eagerly toward the house as they approached, and that 
her step was rapid, as if impatient of the quiet progress of her 
companions. Pride was lost in the sweet thrill of maternal 
afi'ection which shot through the mother’s heart. She forgot 
all her plans, in the dear wish to hold her first-born once 
more to her bosom ; and ran to the door, her face beaming 


108 


MALAE6KA. 


with joy, her arms outstretched, and her lips trembling witn 
the warmth of their own welcome. 

The next moment her child was clinging about her, lavish- 
ing kisses on her handsome mouth, and checking her caresses 
to gaze up through the mist of tears and smiles which deluged 
her own sweet face, to the glad eyes that looked down so 
fondly upon her. 

“ Oh, mother ! dear, dear mother, how glad I am to get 
home ! Where are the boys ? where is little Ned ?” inquired 
the happy girl, rising from her mother’s arms, and looking 
eagerly round for other objects of affectionate regard. 

“ Sarah, don’t you intend to let me speak to your mother ?” 
inquired the father, in a voice which told how truly his heart 
was in the scene. 

Sarah withdrew from her mother’s arms, blushing and smil- 
ing through her tears ; the husband and wife shook hands 
half a dozen times over ; Mrs. Jones asked him how had been, 
what kind of a voyage he had made, how he liked Manhattan, 
and a dozen other questions, all in a breath: and then the 
stranger was introduced. Mrs. Jones forgot the dignified 
cortuesy which she had intended to perpetrate on the entrance 
of her guest, and shook him heartily by the hand, as if sb 3 
had been acquainted w'ith him from his cradle. 

When the happy group entered the parlor, they found Ar- 
thur, who had been raised to the dignity of storekeeper in 
the father’s absence, ready to greet his parent and sister ; and 
the younger children huddled together at the door which led 
to the kitchen, brimful of eager joy at the father’s return, and 
yet too much afraid of the stranger to enter the room. 

Altogether, it was as cordial, warm-hearted a reception as 
a man could reasonably wish on his return home ; and, for- 
tunately for Mrs. Jones, the warmth of her own natural feel- 
ing saved her the ridicule of trying to get up a genteel scene, 
for the edification of her future son-in-law. 

About half an hour after the arrival of her friends, Mrs. 
Jones was passing from the kitchen, where she had seen the 
turkey placed in the oven, with his portly bosom rising above 
the rim of a dripping-pan, his legs tied together, and his wings 
tucked snugly over his back, when she met her husband in 
the passage. 


CUKIOSITT. 


109 


“ Well,” said the wife, in a cautious voice, “has every thing 
turned out well — is he so awful rich as your letter said ?” 

“ There is no doubt about that ; he is as rich as a Jew, and 
as proud as a lord. I can tell you what, Sarah’s made the best 
match in America, let the other be what it will,” replied the 
squire, imitating the low tone of his questioner. 

“ What an eye he’s got, hasn’t he ? I never saw any thing 
so black and piercing in my life. He’s very handsome, too, 
only a little darkish — I don’t wonder the girl took a fancy to 
him. I say, has any thing been said about the wedding ?” 

“ It must be next week, at any rate, for he wants to go 
back to Manhattan in a few days ; he and Sarah will manage 
it without our help, I dare say.” Here Mr. and Mrs. Jones 
looked at each other and smiled. 

“ I say, squire, I want to ask you one question,” interrupted 
Mrs. Bates, coming through the kitchen door and sidling up 
to the couple, “ is that watch which the gentleman carries rale 
genuine gold, or on’y pinchbeck ? I’d give any thing on ’arth 
to find out.” 

“ I believe it’s gold, Mrs. Bates.” 

“ Now, du tell ! What, rale Guinea gold ? Now, if that 
don’t beat all natur. I ruther guess Miss Sarah’s feathered 
her nest this time, any how. Now, squire, du tell a body, 
when is the wedding to be ? I won’t tell a single ’arthly critter, 
if you’ll on’y jest give me a hint.” 

“You must ask Sarah,” repled Mr. Jones, following his wife 
into the parlor ; “ I never meddle with young folks’ affiiirs.” 

“ Now, did you ever ?” muttered the old w’oman, when she 
found herself alone in the passage. “ Never mind ; if I don’t 
find out afore I go home to-night, I lose my guess, that’s all. 
I should just like to know what they’re a talking about this 
minute.” 

Here the old woman crouched down and put her ear to the 
crevice under the parlor door ; in a few moments she scrambled 
up and hurried off into the kitchen again, just in time to 
save herself from being pushed over by the opening door. 

Sarah Jones returned home the same warm-hearted intelli- 
gent gh'l as ever. She was a little more delicate in person, 
more quiet and graceful in her movements; and love had 
given depth of expression to her large blue eyes, a richer tone 


110 


MALAESKA. 


to her sweet voice, and had mellowed down the buoyant spirit 
of the girl to the softness and grace of wmmanhood. Thor- 
oughly and trustfully had she given her young affections, and 
her person seemed imbued with gentleness from the fount of 
love, that gushed up so purely in her heart. She knew that 
she was loved in return — not as she loved, fervently, and in 
silence, but with the fire of a passionate nature ; with the keen, 
intense feeling which mingles pain even with happiness, and 
makes sorrow sharp as the tooth of a serpent. 

Proud, fastidious, and passionate was the object of her re- 
gard; his prejudices had been strengthened and his faults ma- 
tured, in the lap of luxury and indulgence. He was high- 
spirited and generous to a fault, a true friend and a bitter 
enemy — one of those men wdio have lofty virtues and strong 
counterbalancing faults. But with all his heart and soul he 
loved the gentle girl to w'hom he was betrothed. In that 
he had been thoroughly unselfish and more than generous; 
but not the less proud. The prejudices of birth and station 
had been instilled into his nature, till they had become a part 
of it ; yet he had unhesitatingly offered hand and fortune to 
the daughter of a plain country farmer. 

In truth, his predominating pride might be seen in this, 
mingled with the powerful love which urged him to the pro- 
posal, He preferred bestowing wealth and station on the 
object of his choice, rather than receiving any worldly advant- 
age from her. It gratified him that his love would be looked 
up to by its object, as the source from wdiich all benefits must 
be derived. It w'as a feeling of refined selfishness ; he would 
have been startled had any one told him so; and yet, a 
generous pride was at the bottom of all. He gloried in ex- 
alting his chosen one; while his affianced wife, and her 
family, warn convinced that nothing could be more noble than 
his conduct, in thus selecting a humble and comparatively 
portionless girl to share his brilliant fortune. 

On the atternoon of the second day after her return home, 
Sarah entered the parlor with her bonnet on and a shawl flung 
over her arm, prepared for a walk. Her lover was lying on 
the crimson cushions of the settee, with his fine eyes half- 
closed, and a book nearly falling from his listless hand. 

“ Come,” said Sarah, taking the volume playfully from his 


HATRED FOR THE INDIAN RACE. 


Ill 


Hand, “ I have come to persuade you to a long walk. Mother 
has introduced all her friends, now you must go and see mine 
— the dearest and best.” 

“ Spare me,” said the young man, half-rising, and brushing 
the raven hair from his forehead with a graceful motion of the 
hand ; “ I will go with you anywhere, but do excuse me these 
horrid introductions— I am overwhelmed with the hospitality 
of your neighborhood.” He smiled, and attempted to regain 
the book as he spoke. 

“ Oh, but this is quite another kind of person ; you never 
saw any thing at all like her — thei*e is something picturesque 
and romantic about her. You like romance?” 

“ What is she, Dutch or English ? I can’t speak Dutch, 
and your own sweet English is enough for me. Come, take 
off that bonnet and let me read to you.” 

“ No, no ; I must visit the wugwam, if you will not.” 

“ The wigwam. Miss Jones ?” exclaimed the youth, starting 
up, his face changing its expression, and his large black eyes 
flashing on her with the glance of an eagle. “ Am I to under- 
stand that your friend is an Indian ?” 

“Certainly, slie is an Indian, but not a common one, I 
assure you.” 

“ She is an Indian. Enough, I will not go ; and I can only 
express my surprise at a request so extraordinary. I have no 
ambition to cultivate the copper-colored race, or to find my 
future wife seeking her friends in the woods.” 

The finely cut lip of the speaker curved with a smile of 
haughty contempt, and his manner was disturbed and irritable, 
beyond any thing the young girl had ever witnessed in him 
before. She turned pale at this violent burst of feeling, and it 
was more than a minute before slie addressed him again. 

“ This violence seems unreasonable — why should my wish 
to visit a harmless, solitary fellow-being create so much oppo- 
sition,” she said, at last. 

“Forgive me, if I have spoken harshly, dear Sarah,” he 
answered, striving to subdue his irritation, but spite of his effort 
it blazed out again the next instant. “ It is useless to strive 
against the feeling ; I hate the whole race ! If there is a thing 
I abhor on earth, it is a savage— a fierce, blood-thirsty, wild 
beast in human form !” 


113 


MALAESKA. 


There was something in the stern expression of his face, 
which pained and startled the young girl who gazed on it ; a 
brilliancy of the eye, and an expansion of the thin nostrils, 
which bespoke terrible passions when once excited to the full. 

“ This is a strange prejudice,” she murmured, unconsciously, 
while her eyes sank from theii* gaze on his face. 

“It is no prejudice, but a part of my nature,” he retorted, 
sternly, pacing up and down the room. “ An antipathy rooted 
in the cradle, which grew stronger and deeper wdth my man- 
hood. I loved my grandfather, and from him I imbibed this 
early hate. His soul loathed the very name of Indian. When 
he met one of the prowling creatures in the highway, I have 
seen his lips writhe, his chest heave, and his face grow white, 
as if a wild beast had started up in his path. There was one 
in our family, an affectionate, timid creature, as the sun ever 
shone upon. I can remember loving her very dearly when I 
was a mere child, but my grandfather recoiled at the very 
sound of her name, and seemed to regard her presence as a 
curse, which for some reason he was compelled to endure. I 
could never imagine why he kept her. She was very kind to 
me, and I tried to find her out after my return from Europe, 
but you remember that my grandparents died suddenly during 
my absence, and no one could give me any information about 
her. Save that one being, there is not a savage, male or fe- 
male, whom I should not rejoice to see exterminated from the 
face of the earth. Do not, I pray you, look so terribly shocked, 
my sweet girl ; I aclmowledge the feeling to be a prejudice too 
violent for adequate foundation ; but it was grounded in my 
nature by one whom I respected and loved as my own life, 
and it will cling to my heart as long as there is a pulse left 
in it.” 

“ I have no predilection for savages as a race,” said Sarah, 
after a few moments’ silence, gratified to find some shadow of 
reason for her lover’s violence ; “ but you make one exception, 
may I not also be allowed a favorite ? especially as she is a 
white in education, feeling, every thing but color ? You would 
not have me neglect one of the kindest, best friends I ever had 
on earth, because the tint of her skin is a shade darker than 
my own ?” 

Her voice was sweet and persuasive, a smile trembled on 


A lovers’ quarrel. 


118 


her lips, and she laid a hand gently on his arm as she spoke. 
He must have been a savage indeed, had he resisted her win- 
ding ways. 

“ I would have you forgive my violence and follow your 
own sweet impulses,” he said, putting back the curls from her 
uplifted forehead, and drawing her to his bosom ; “ say you 
have forgiven me, dear, and then go where you will.” 

It was with gentle words like these, that he had won the 
love of that fair being ; they fell upon her heart, after his late 
harshness, like dew to a thirsty violet. She raised her glisten- 
ing eyes to his with a language more eloquent than words, 
and disengaging herself from his arms, glided softly out of the 
room. 

These words could hardly be called a lovers’ quarrel, and 
yet they parted with all the sweet feelings of reconciliation, 
warm at the heart of each. 


114 


MALAESKA. 


I 


CHAPTER XI. 

By that forest-grave she mournful stood, 

While her soul went forth in prayer ; 

Her life was one long solitude, 

Which she offer’d, meekly, there. 

Sarah pursued the foot-path, which she had so often trod 
through the forest, with a fawn-like lightness of step, and a 
heart that beat quicker at the sight of each familiar bush or 
forest-tree, which had formerly been the waymark of her 
route. 

“ Poor woman, she must have been very lonely,” she mur- 
mured, more than once, when the golden blossoms of a spice- 
bush, or the tendrils of a vine trailing over the path, told how 
seldom it had been traveled of late, and her heart impercep- 
tibly became saddened by the thoughts of her friend ; spite of 
this, she stopped occasionally to witness the gambols of a gray 
squirrel among the tall branches, that swayed and rustled in 
the sunshine overhead, and smiled at her usual timidity, when, 
thus employed, a slender gi*ass-snake crept across her foot and 
coiled itself up in the path like a chain of living emeralds; his 
small eyes glittering like sparks of fire, his tiny jaw open, and 
a sharp little tongue playing within like a red-hot needle cleft 
at the point. She forced herself to look upon the harmless 
reptile, without a fear which she knew to be childish, and 
turning aside, pursued her way to “ the Straka.” 

To her disappointment, she found the wigwam empty, but 
a path was beaten along the edge of the woods, leading to- 
ward the Pond, which she had never observed before. She 
turned into it with a sort of indefinite expectation of meeting 
her friend ; and after winding through the depths of the for- 
est for nearly a mile, the notes of a wild, plaintive song rose 
and fell — a sad, sweet melody — on the still air. 

A few steps onward brought the young girl to a small open 
space sun'ounded by young saplings and flowering shrubs; 


THE WARKI‘OR's GRAVE. 


115 


fell grass swept from a little mound wliicli swelled up from 
the center, to the margin of the iuclosure, and a magnificent 
hemlock shadowed the whole space with its drooping boughs. 

A sensation of awe fell upon the heart of the young girl, 
for, as she gazed, the mound took the form of a grave. A 
large rose-tree, heavy with blossoms, drooped over the head, 
and the sheen of rippling waters broke through a clump of 
sweet-brier, which hedged it in from the lake. 

Sarah remembered that the Indian chief’s grave was on the 
very brink of the water, and that she had given a young rose- 
tree to Malaeska years ago, which must have shot up into the 
solitary bush standing before her, lavishing fragrance from its 
pure white flowers over the place of the dead. 

This would have been enough to convince her that she 
stood by the warrior’s grave, had the place been solitary, but 
at the root of the hemlock, with her arms folded on her bosom 
and her calm face uplifted toward heaven, sat Malaeska. Her 
lips were slightly parted, and the song which Sarah had listen- 
ed to afar off broke from them — a sad pleasant strain, that 
blended in harmony with the rippling waters and the gentle 
sway of the hemlock branches overhead. 

Sarah remained motionless till the last note of the song died 
away on the lake, then she stepped forward into the inclosure. 
The Indian woman saw her and arose, while a beautiful ex- 
pression of joy beamed over her face. 

“The bird does not feel more joyful at the return of spring, 
when snows have covered the earth all winter, than does tlie 
poor Indian’s heart at the sight of her child again,” she said, 
taking the maiden’s hand and kissing it with a graceful move- 
ment of mingled respect and affection. “ Sit down, that I may 
hear the sound of your voice once more.” 

They sat down together at the foot of the hemlock. 

“ You have been lonely, my poor friend, and ill, I fear ; how 
thin you have become during my absence,” said Sarah, gazing 
on the changed features of her companion. 

“ I shall be happy again now,” replied the Indian, with a 
faint sweet smile, “you will come to see me every day.” 

“Yes, while I remain at home, but— but— I’m going back 
again soon.” 

“ You need not tell me more in words, I can read it in the 


116 


MALArsKA. 


tone of your voice, in the light of that modest eye, though the 
silken lash does droop over it like leaves around a wet violet 
— in the color coming and going on these cheeks ; another is 
coming to take you from home,” said the Indian, with a play- 
ful smile. “Did you think the lone' woman could not read 
the signs of love — that she has never loved herself? 

“ You ?” 

“ Do not look so wild, but tell me of yourself. Are you to 
be married so mry soon ?” 

“ In four days.” 

“ Then where will your home be ?” 

“ In Manhattan.” 

There was a few moments of silence. Sarah sat gazing on 
the turf, with the warm blood mantling to her cheek, ashamed 
and yet eager to converse more fully on the subject which 
flooded her young heart with supreme content. The Indian 
continued motionless, lost in a train of sad thoughts conjured 
up by the last word uttered ; at length she laid her hand on 
that of her companion, and spoke ; her voice was sad, and 
tears stood in her eyes. 

“ In a few days you go from me again — oh, it is very weari- 
some to be always alone ; the heart pines for something to love. 
I have been petting a little wren, that has built his nest under 
the eaves of my wigwam, since you went away ; it w^as com 
pany for me, and will be again. Do not look so pitiful, but 
tell me who is he that calls the red blood to your cheek? 
What are his qualities ? Does he love you as one like you 
should be loved ? Is he good, brave ?” 

“ He says that he loves me,” replied the j'oung girl, blushing 
more deeply, and a beautiful smile broke into her eyes as she 
raised them for a moment to the Indian’s face. 

“ And you ?” 

“I have neither experience nor standard to judge of love 
by. If to think of one from morning to night, be love — to feel 
his presence color each thought even when he is far away — 
to know that he is haunting your beautiful day-dreams, wan- 
dering with you through the lovely places w'hich fancy is con- 
tinually presenting to one in solitude, filling up each space and 
thought of your life, and yet in no way diminishing the affec- 
tion which the heart oears to others, but increasing it rather — 


woman’s love. 


117 


if to be made happy with the slightest trait of noble feeling, 
proud in his virtues, and yet quick-sighted and doubly sensitive 
to all his faults, clinging to him in spite of those faults — if this 
be love, then I do love with the whole strength of my being. 
They tell me it is but a dream, which will pass away, but I 
do not believe it ; for in my bosom the first sweet fiutter of 
awakened affection, has already settled down to a deep feeling 
of contentment. My heart is full of tranquillity, and, like that 
white rose which lies motionless in the sunshine burdened 
with the wealth of its own sweetness, it unfolds itself day by 
day to a more pure and subdued state of enjoyment. This 
feeling may not be the love which men talk so freely of, but it 
can not change — never — not even in death, unless William 
Danforth should prove utterly unworthy !” 

“ William Danforth ! Did I hear aright ? Is William 
Danforth the name of your affianced husband ?” inquired the 
Indian, in a voice of overwhelming surprise, starting up with 
sudden impetuosity and then slowly sinking back to her seat 
again. “ Tell me,” she added, faintly, and yet in a tone that 
thrilled to the heart, “ has this boy — this young gentleman, I 
mean — come of late from across the big waters ?” 

“ He came from Europe a year since, on the death of his 
grandparents,” was the reply. 

“ A 3'^ear, a whole year !” murmured the Indian, clasping 
her hands over her eyes with sudden energy. Her head sunk 
forward upon her knees, and her whole frame shivered with a 
rush of strong feeling, which was perfectly unaccountable to 
the almost terrified girl who gazed upon her. “Father of 
Heaven, I thank thee ! my eyes shall behold him once more. 
O God, make me grateful !” These words, uttered so fervently, 
were muffled by the locked hands of the Indian woman, and 
Sarah could only distinguish that she was strongly excited by 
the mention of her lover’s name. 

“ Have you ever known Mr. Danforth ?” she inquired, when 
the agitafon of the strange woman had a little subsided. The 
Indian, did not answer, but raising her head, and brushing the 
tears from her eyes, she looked in the maiden’s face with an 
expression of pathetic tenderness that touched her to the heart. 

“ And you are to be liU wife ? You, my bird of birds.” 

She fell upon the ‘young girl’s neck as she spoke, and wept 


118 


MALAESKA. 


like an infant ; then, as if conscious of betraying too deep emo- 
tion, she lifted her head, and tried to compose herself ; while 
Sarah sat gazing on her, agitated, bewildered, and utterly at a 
loss to account for this sudden outbreak of feeling, in one 
habitually so subdued and calm in her demeanor. After sitting 
musingly and in silence several moments, the Indian again 
lifted her eyes ; they were full of sorrowful meaning, yet there 
was an eager look about them which betrayed degree of excite- 
ment yet unsubdued. 

“Dead — are they both dead? his grandparents, I mean?” 
she said, earnestly. 

“Yes, they are both dead; he told me so.” 

“ And he — the young man — where is he now ?” 

“ I left him at my father’s house, not three hours since.” 

“ Come, let us go.” 

The two arose, passed through the inclosure, and threaded 
the path toward the wigwam slowly and in silence. The 
maiden was lost in conjecture, and her companion seemed 
pondering in some hidden thought of deep moment. Now 
her face was sad and regretful in its look, again it lighted up 
with a thrilling expression of eager and yearning tenderness. 

The afternoon shadows were gathering over the forest, and 
being anxious to reach home before dark, Sarah refused to 
enter the wigwam when they reached it. The Indian went in 
for a moment, and returned with a slip of birch bark, on which 
a few words were lightly traced in pencil. 

“ Give this to the young man,” she said, placing the bark in 
Sarah’s hand ; “ and now good-night — good-night.” 

Sarah took the bark and turned with a hurried step to the 
forest track. She felt agitated, and as if something painful 
were about to happen. With a curiosity aroused by the In- 
dian’s strange manner, she examined the writing on the slip of 
bark in her hand ; it was only a request that William Danforth 
would meet the writer at a place appointed, on the bank of 
the Catskill Creek, that evening. The scroll was signed, 
“ Malaeska.” 

Malaeska! It was singular, but Sarah Jones had never 
learned the Indian’s name before. 


HOPPY NOSE. 


119 


CHAPTER XIV. 

“ Wild was her look, wild was her air, 

Back from her shoulders stream’d the hain - 
The locks, that wont her brow to shade, 

Started erectly from her head ; 

Her figure seem’d to rise more high — 

Prom her pale lips a frantic cry 

Rang sharply through the moon’s pale light — 

And life to her was endless night.” 

The point of land, which we have described in the early 
part of this story, as hedging in the outlet of Catskill Creek, 
gently ascends from the juncture of the two streams and rolls 
upward into a broad and beautiful hill, which again sweeps 
off toward the mountains and down the margin of the Hudson 
in a vast plain, at the present day cut up into highly culti- 
vated farms, and diversified by little eminences, groves, and 
one large tract of swamp-land. Along the southern margin 
of the creek the hill forms a lofty and picturesque bank, in 
some places dropping to the water in a sheer descent of forty 
or fifty feet, and in others, sloping down in a more gradual 
but still abrupt fall, broken into little ravines, and thickly 
covered with a fine growth of young timber. 

A foot-path winds up from the stone dwelling, which v/e 
have already described, along the upper verge of this bank to 
the level of the plain, terminating in a singular projection of 
earth which shoots out from the face of the bank some feet 
over the stream, taking the form of a huge serpent’s head. This 
projection commands a fine view of the village, and is known 
to the inhabitants by the title of “ Hoppy Nose,” from a tra- 
dition attached to it. The foot-path, which terminates at this 
point, receives a melancholy interest from the constant pres- 
ence of a singular being who has trod it regularly for years. 
Hour after hour, and day after day, tlu’ough sunshine and 
storm, he is to be seen winding among the trees, or moving 
with a slow monotonous walk along this track, where it verges 
into the rich sward. Speechless he has been for years, not 
from inability, but from a settled, unbroken habit of silence. 
He is perfectly gentle and inoffensive, and from his quiet bear- 


130 


MALAESKiS. 


ing a slight observer might mistake him for a meditative phi- 
losopher, rather than a man slightly and harmlessly insane : 
as a peculiar expression in his clear, blue eyes and his reso- 
lute silence must surely proclaim him to be. 

But vre are describing subsequent things, rather than the 
scenery as it existed at the time of our story. Then, the hill- 
side and all the broad plain was a forest of heavy timbered 
land, but the bank of the creek was much in its present con- 
dition. The undergrowth throve a little more luxuriantly, 
and the “ Hoppy Nose” shot out from it covered with a thick 
coating of grass, but shrubless, with the exception of two or 
three saplings and a few clumps of wild-dowers. 

As the moon arose on the night after Sarah Jones’ inter- 
view with the Indian woman, that singular being stood upon 
the “ Hoppy Nose,” waiting the appearance of young Dan- 
forth. More than once she went out to the extreme verge of 
the projection, looked eagerly up and down the stream, then 
back into the shadow again, with folded arms, continued her 
watch as before. 

At length a slight sound came from the opposite side ; she 
sprang forward, and supporting herself by a sapling, bent over 
the stream, with one foot just touching the verge of the pro- 
jection, her lips slightly parted, and her left hand holding 
back the hair from her temples, eager to ascertain the nature 
Df the sound. The sapling bent and almost snapped beneath 
her hold, but she remained motionless, her eyes shining in the 
moonlight with a strange, uncertain luster, and fixed keenly 
on the place whence the sound proceeded. 

A canoe cut out into the river, and made toward the spot 
where she was standing. 

“ It is he !” broke from her parted lips, as the moonlight 
fell on the clear forehead and graceful form of a young man, 
who stood upright in the little shallop, and drawing a deep 
breath, she settled back, folded her arms, and waited his ap- 
proach. 

The sapling had scarcely swayed back to its position, when 
the youth curved his canoe round to a hollow in the bank, 
and climbing along the ascent, he drew himself up the steep 
side of the “ Hoppy Nose” by the brushwood, and sprang to 
the Indian woman’s side. 


A DISCOVERY. 


121 


“ Malaeska,” he said, extending his hand with a manner 
and voice of friendly recognition ; “ my good, kind nurse, be- 
lieve me, I am rejoiced to have, found you again.” 

Malaeska did not take his hand, but after an intense and 
eager gaze into his face, flung herself on his bosom, sobbing 
aloud, murmuring soft, broken words of endearment, and 
trembling all over with a rush of unconquerable tenderness. 

The youth started back, and a frown gathered on his 
haughty forehead. His prejudices were offended, and he 
strove to put her from his bosom ; even gratitude for all her 
goodness could not conquer the disgust with which he recoil- 
ed from the embrace of a savage. 

“ Malaeska,” he said, almost sternly, attempting to unclasp 
her arms from his neck, “ You forget — I am no longer a boy 
— be composed, and say what I can do for you ?” 

But she only clung to him the more passionately, and an- 
avrered with an appeal that thrilled to his very heart. 

“ Put not your mother away — she has waited long — my 
son ! my son !” 

The youth did not comprehend the whole meaning of her 
words. They were more energetic and full of pathos than he 
had ever witnessed before ; but she had been his nurse, and 
he had been long absent from her, and the strength of her 
attachment made him, for a moment, forgetful of her race. 
He was affected almost to tears. 

“ Malaeska,” he said kindly, “ I did not know till now how 
much you loved me. Yet it is not strange — I can remember 
when you were almost a mother to me.” 

'"'•Almost P'' she exclaimed, throwing back her head till the 
moonlight revealed her face. “ Almost ! William Danforth, 
as surely as there is a God to witness my words, you are my 
my own son !” 

The youth started, as if a dagger had been tbrust to his 
heart. He forced the agitated woman from his bosom, and, 
bending forward, gazed sternly into her eyes. 

“ Woman, are you mad ? Dare you assert this to me .?” 

He grasped her arm almost fiercely, and seemed as if tempted 
to offer some violence, for the insult her words had conveyed ; 
but she lifted her eyes to his with a look of tenderness, in 
painful contrast with his almost insane gaze. 


123 


MALAEBKA. 


“ Mad, my son ?” she said, in a voice that thrilled with a 
sweet and broken earnestness on the still air. “ It was a 
blessed madness — the madness of two warm young hearts that 
forgot every thing in the sweet impulse with which they clung 
together ; it was madness which led your father to take the 
wild Indian girl to his bosom, when in the bloom of early 
girlhood. Mad ! oh, I could go mad with very tenderness, 
when I think of the time when your little form was first 
placed in my arms ; when my heart ached with love to feel 
your little hand upon my bosom, and 5"our low murmur fill 
my ear. Oh, it was a sweet madness. I would die to know 
it again.” 

The youth had gradually relaxed his hold on her arm, and 
stood looking upon her as one in a dream, his arms dropping 
helplessly as if they had been suddenly paralyzed ; but when 
she again drew toward him, he was aroused to frenzy. 

“ Great God !” he almost shrieked, dashing his hand against 
his forehead. “ No, no ! it can not — I, an Indian ? a half- 
blood ? the grandson of my father’s murderer ? Woman, 
speak the truth ; word for word, give me the accursed history 
of my disgrace. If I am your son, give me proof— proof, 
say !” 

When the poor woman saw the furious passion she haci 
raised, she sunk back in silent terror, and it was several min 
utes before she could answer his wild appeal. When she dii 
speak, it was gaspingly and in terror. She told him all — of 
his birth ; his father’s death ; of her voyage to Manhattan ; 
and of the cruel promise that had been wrung from her, to 
conceal the relationship between herself and her child. She 
spoke of her solitary life in the wigwam, of the yearning 
power which urged her mother’s heart to claim the love of 
her only child, when that child appeared in her neighborhood. 
She asked not to be acknowledged as his parent, but only to 
live with him, even as a bond servant, if he willed it, so as to 
look upon his face and to claim his love in private, when 
none should be near to witness it. 

He stood perfectly still, with his pale face bent to hers, lis- 
tening to her quick gasping speech, till she had done. Then 
she could see that his face was convulsed in the moonlight, 
and that he trembled and gTasped a sapling which stood near 


THE HALF-BREED. 


128 


for support. His voice was that of one utterly overwhelmed 
and broken-hearted. 

“ Malaeska,” he said, “ unsay all this, if you would not see 
me die at your feet. I am young, and a world of happiness 
was before me. I was about to be married to one so gentle — 
so pure — I, an Indian — was about to give my stained hand to 
a lovely being of untainted blood. I, who was so proud of 
lifting her to my lofty station. Malaeska !” he exclaimed, as 
vehemently grasping her hand with a clutch of iron, “ say that 
this was a story — a sad, pitiful story got up to punish my 
pride ; say but this, and I will give you all I have on earth — 
every farthing. I will love you better than a thousand sons. 
Oh, if you have mercy, contradict the wretched falsehood !” 
His frame shook with agitation, and he gazed upon her as one 
pleading for his life. 

When the wretched mother saw the hopeless misery which 
she had heaped upon her proud and sensitive child, she would 
have laid down her life could she have unsaid the tale which 
had wrought such agony, without bringing a stain of falsehood 
on her soul. 

But words are fbarful weapons, never to be checked when 
once put in motion. Like barbed arrows they enter the heart, 
and can not be withdrawn again, even by tire hand that has 
shot them. Poisoned they are at times, with a venom that 
clings to the memory forever. Words are, indeed, fearful 
things ! The poor Indian mother could not recall hers, but 
she tried to soothe the proud feelings which had been so ter- 
ribly wounded. 

“ Why should my sou scorn the race of his mother ? The 
blood which she gave him from her heart was that of a brave 
and kingly line, warriors and chieftains, all — ” 

The youth interrupted her with a low, bitter laugh. The 
deep prejudices which had been instilled into his nature — 
pride, despair, every feeling which urges to madness and evil — 
were a lire in his heart. 

“ So I have a patent of nobility to gild my sable birthright, 
an ancestral line of dusky chiefs to boast of. I should have 
known this, when I offered my hand to that lovely girl. She 
little knew the dignity which awaited her union. Father of 
heaven ! my heart will break— -I am going mad 1” 


124 


MALAESKA, 


He looked wildly around as he spoke, and his eyes settled 
on the dark waters, flowing so tranquilly a few feet beneath 
him. Instantly he becalne calm, as one who had found an 
unexpected resource in his affliction. His face was perfectly 
colorless and gleamed like marble as he turned to his mo- 
ther, who stood in a posture of deep humility and supplication 
a few paces off, for she dared not approach him again either 
with words of comfort or tenderness. All the sweet hopes 
which had of late been so warm in her heart, were utterly 
crushed. She was a heart-broken, wretched woman, with- 
out a hope on this side the grave. The young man drew close 
to her, and taking both her hands, looked sorrowfully into her 
face. His voice was tranquil and deep-toned, but a slight 
husky sound gave an unnatural solemnity to his words. 

“ Malaeska,” he said, raising her hands toward heaven, 
“ swear to me by the God whom we both worship, that you 
have told me nothing but the truth ; I would have no doubt.” 

There was something sublime in his position, and in the 
solemn calmness which had settled upon him. The poor 
woman had been weeping, but the t^ars were checked in her 
eyes, and her pale lips ceased their quivering motion and be- 
came firm, as she looked up to the white face bending over 
her. 

“ As I hope to meet you, my sou, before that God, I have 
spoken nothing but the truth.” 

“ Malaeska !” 

“ Will you not call me mother ?” said the meek woman, 
with touching pathos. “ I know that I am an Indian, but 
your father loved me.” 

“ Mother ? Yes, God forbid that I should refuse to call you 
mother ; I am afraid that I have often been harsh to you, but 
I did not know your claim on my love. Even now, I have 
been unkind.” 

“ No, no, my son.” 

“ I remember you were always meek and forgiving — you 
forgive me now, my poor mother V” 

Malaeska could not speak, but she sank to her sou’s feet, 
and covered his hand with tears and kisses. 

“ There is one who will feel this more deeply than either 
of us. You will comfort her, Mala — mother, will you not ?” 


THE SUICIDE. 


125 


Malaeska rose slowly up, and looked into her son’s face. 
She was terrified by his child-like gentleness ; her breath came 
painfully. She knew not why it was, but a shudder ran 
through her frame, and her heart grew heavy, as if some ter- 
rible catastrophe were about to happen. The young man 
stepped a pace nearer the bank, and stood, motionless, gazing 
dowm into the water. Malaeska drew close to him, and laid 
her hand on his arm. 

“ My son, why do you stand thus ? Why gaze so fearfully 
upon the water ?” 

He did not answ^er, but drew her to his bosom, and pressed 
his lips down upon her forehead. Tears sprang afresh to the 
mother’s eyes, and her heart thrilled with an exquisite sensa- 
tion, which was almost pain. It w^as the first time he had 
kissed her since his childhood. She trembled with mingled 
awe and tenderness as he released her from his embrace, and 
put her gently from the brink of the projection. The action 
had placed her back toward him. She turned — saw him clasp 
his hands high over his head, and spring into the air. There 
was a plunge ; the deep rushing sound of waters flowing back 
to their place, and then a shriek, sharp and full of terrible 
agony, rung over the stream like the death-cry of a human 
being. 

The cry broke from the wretched mother, as she tore off 
her outer garments and plunged after the self-murderer. 
Twice the moonlight fell upon her pallid face and her long 
hair, as it streamed out on the water. The third time another 
marble fiice rose to the surface, and with almost super-human 
strength the mother bore up the lifeless body of her son with 
one arm, and with the other struggled to the shore. She car- 
ried him up the steep bank where, at another time, no woman 
could have clambered even without incumbrance, and laid 
him on the grass. She tore open his vest, and laid her hand 
upon the heart. It was cold and pulseless. She chafed his 
palms, rubbed his marble forehead, and stretching herself on 
his body, tried to breathe life into his marble lips from her 
own cold heart. It was in vain. When convinced of this, 
she ceased all exertion ; her face fell forward to the earth, 
and, with a low sobbing breath, she lay motionless by the 
dead. 


126 


MALAESKA. 


The villagers heard that fearful shriek, and rushed down 
to the stream. Boats were launched, and when their crews 
reached the “ Hoppy Nose,” it w^as to find two human beings 
lying upon it. 

The next morning found a sorrowful household in Arthur 
Jones’ dwelling. Mrs. Jones was in tears, and the children 
moved noiselessly around the house, and spoke in timid whis- 
pers, as if the dead could be aroused. In the “ out-room” lay 
the body of William Danforth, shrouded in his wunding-sheet. 
With her heavy eyes fixed on the marble features of her son, 
sat the wretched Indian mother. Until the evening before, 
her dark hair had retained the volume and gloss of youth, but 
now it fell back from her hollow temples profusely as ever, 
but perfectly gray. The frost of grief had changed it in 
a single night. Her features were sunken, and she sat by the 
dead, motionless and resigned. There was nothing of stub- 
born grief about her. She answered when spoken to, and 
was patient in her suffering ; but all could see that it was but 
the tranquillity of a broken heart, mild in its utter desolation. 
When the villagers gathered for the funeral, Malaeska, in a 
few gentle words, told them of her relationship to the dead, 
and besought them to bury him by the side of his father. 

The coffin was carried out, and a solemn train followed it 
through tlic forest. Women and children all went fortli to 
the burial. 

When the dead body of her afiianped husband was brought 
home, Sarah Jones had been carried senseless to her cliamber. 
The day wore on, the funeral procession passed forth, and she 
knew nothing of it. She was falling continual 1}^ from one 
fainting fit to another, murmuring sorrowfully in her intervals 
of consciousness, and dropping gently away with the sad 
words on her lips, like a child mourning itself to sleep. Late 
in the night, after her lover’s interment, she awoke to a con- 
sciousness of misfortune. She turned feebly upon her pillow, 
and prayed earnestly and with a faith which turned trustingly 
to God for strength. As the light dawned, a yearning wisli 
awoke in her heart to visit the grave of her betrothed. She 
arose, dressed herself, and bent her way with feeble step to- 
ward the forest. Strengtli returned to her as she went for- 
ward, The dew lay heavily among the wild-flowers in he? 


DEATH OP MALAESKA. 


127 


path, and a squirrel, which had made her walk cheerful two 
days before, was playing among the branches overhead. She 
remembered the happy feeling with which she had witnessed 
his gambols then, and covered her face as if a friend had at- 
tempted to comfort her. 

The wigwam was desolate, and the path which led to the 
grave lay with the dew yet unbroken on its turf. The 
early sunshine was playing among the wet, heavy branches of 
the hemlock, when she reached the inclosure. A sweet fra- 
grance was shed over the trampled grass from the white rose- 
tree which bent low beneath the weight of its pure blossoms. 
A shower of damp petals lay upon the chieftain’s grave, and 
the green leaves quivered in the air as it sighed through them 
with a pleasant and cheering motion. But Sarah saw nothing 
but a newly-made grave, and stretched upon its fresh sods the 
form of a human being. A feeling of awe came over the 
maiden’s heart. She moved reverently onward, feeling that 
she was in the sanctuary of the dead. The form was Mala- 
eska’s. One arm fell over the grave, and her long hair, in all 
its mournful change of color, had been swept back fronj her 
forehead, and lay tangled amid the rank grass. The sod on 
which her head rested was sprinkled over with tiny white 
blossoms. A handful lay crushed beneath her cheek, and sent 
up a faint odor over the marble face. Sarah bent down and 
touched the forehead. It was cold and hard, but a tranquil 
sweetness was there which told that the spirit had passed 
away without a struggle. Malaeska lay dead among the 
graves of her household, the heart-broken victim of an un- 
natural marriage. 

******** -j:- * 

Years passed on — the stern, relentless years that have at 
last swept away every visible trace which links the present 
with the past. The old house in Manhattan, where Sarah 
Jones had known so much happiness, v/hich had been bright- 
ened for a little season by the sunshine of two young hearts, 
then darkened by the gloom of death, had long stood silent 
and untenanted. 

After the death of William Danforth, there had been no 
relative in America to claim the estate left by his grandfather. 
In those days it took much time for tidings to cross the sea, 


128 


MALAESKA. 


and after they had reached England, there was such struggle 
and contention between those who claimed the property, that 
it was long before any actual settlement of it was made. 

At last the old house was to be torn down, and its garden 
destroyed, to give place to a block of stores, the usual fate of 
every relic of old time in our restless city. 

The day came upon which the solitary dwelling was to be 
demolished. The roof was torn off, the stout walls rudely 
pulled down, the timbers creaking as if suffering actual agony 
from their destruction ; the grape-vine was buried beneath the 
fragments, the rose-bushes uprooted and thrown out iipon the 
pavement to die, and in a few hours the only trace left of the 
once pleasant spot, was a shapeless mass of broken bricks and 
mortar, above which the swallows flew in wild circles, deplor- 
ing the loss of their old nesting-places. 

While that devastation was in progress, a lady stood upon the 
opposite side of the street, watching every blow with painful 
interest. She was many years past the bloom of youth, but 
the features had a loveliness almost saint-like from the holy 
resignation which illuminated them. 

So when the work of ruin was complete, Sarah Jones stole 
quietly away, stilling the wave of anguish that surged over 
her heart from the past, and going back to her useful life, 
without a murmur against the Providence that had made it so 
lonely. 



BEADLE’S DlilCE NOVELS, NO. 2. 


THE PRIVATEER’S CRUISE, AND THE BRIDE OF POMFRET HALL. 

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